


Innocents (This Time, Anyway)

by Sarai



Series: Stars from Home [9]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-10 14:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 34,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4396109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarai/pseuds/Sarai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three weeks ago, the Brotherhood attacked the Mansion. Nothing has returned to normal. Scott tries to help Alex through his grief, while Ororo is too mired in anger and hurt to care about things like failing grades. </p><p>Professor Xavier might have the patience to wait this out, but is patience enough to save his students and his fledgling school? (No, not really.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. April 4, 1964

**Author's Note:**

> This story is marked as including major character because of a death in the previous story--no one else will die in this one.

The last of the snow had melted, giving way to clear, cold days and rain that soaked into the earth and sprouted bright fresh shoots from each branch. Spring came on so quickly. Just like that, everything changed. The world was green again… at least to people who could see green.

Two boys trod heavy footprints into damp earth, squashing weeds. One of them enjoyed the tones of leaves, grass, moss, and lichens growing all around them.

The other boy was Scott Summers.

"Was it explicitly stated that we may not use the trees across the road?"

"Not in as many words."

"In fewer words?"

"Sure. In zero words, a lot fewer."

Doug Ramsey sighed, but decided he didn't really mind. The woods (woods? Thicket? The tree-rich area on the Xavier Estate… the guy basically owned a park) were pleasant, still dripping off the last drops of an earlier shower and utterly resplendent with the scent of earth.

"Here."

Scott crouched close to the ground.

"Clovers," he observed. "What do you think?"

"I think you didn't actually need me for this," Doug retorted.

"We classify them based on leaves—three-leaf clover, four-leaf."

"I put on a sweater for you," Doug accused.

It might not have sounded like much, but one of his arms was in a cast and sling, which made getting dressed really annoying, especially with warm clothes. Loose t-shirts were his friends these days. He was generally considered the second worst off after the attack on the school. Scott, whose ribs were fractured and fingers dislocated, came in third.

Sean was dead.

It was easier not to think about.

Doug was never quite sure if his classmate was older or younger than he was. Although Scott was fifteen and Doug eighteen, Scott often acted like he was one of the adults. He was given different treatment, too, but that was more to do with his being practically Professor Xavier's son.

The strangest thing, though: every time someone mentioned Scott's age, Doug read more to it than he was told. He had been puzzling over it for the past week, ever since another classmate, Laurie Collins, recounted to him that apparently Scott was older than Alex. It made no sense, because Scott was a high school student and Alex was an adult who worked, swore, and went to community college.

Well… he used to.

"Is Alex…"

Okay?

Well?

Better?

Doug couldn't choose a word.

Scott plucked the clover, then took out his notebook and pressed it carefully to the page. "He'll be okay," he said.

Doug saw the uncertainty in Scott's posture, the way he shifted back. He didn't comment on it.

"Doug, I'd like to ask you something a bit uncomfortable."

"Oh. Okay."

Maybe he had an ulterior motive, after all.

"You see what people mean—what they think. I was just… after everything that's happened, I… do people like me?"

Doug waited, sure there was more. When Scott didn't continue, he said, "Yeah, of course they do."

"But—"

"Scott. People like you and they trust you. Everyone's upset, but no one with you."

"Oh. So, do pine needles count as leaves?" Scott asked.

Doug thought about that. Thanks to his mutation, he understood every word someone said. He did not always understand the intricacies of language… like now.

"I'm not sure. What did Hank say?"

"I didn't ask—he just said leaves."

Doug wasn't sure either way. Instead he said, "You could always bring them as extras. I think there's some bushes over this way."

They were collecting leaves for Scott's spring break assignment. It wouldn't be graded, was more to help him understand the concepts and keep them fresh in his mind. Doug did not have a spring break assignment, not because his grade was significantly higher (although it was) but because another point of the assignment was giving Scott something to do.

Ororo had spring assignments, too. She and Scott would be spending the week at school, while Doug and Laurie went home to their families. Doug wasn't sure who had the better bargain out of that.

Someone else had a very clear opinion.

* * *

 

Back inside the school, Ororo Munroe threw her assignment onto Charles Xavier's desk in disgust. She sat across from him, looking across the desk like she was facing her worst enemy.

"No! I'm not doing it!"

On top of everything, the assignment had made a very disappointing flutter down to the desktop. She had thrown it quite hard, but the few sheets of paper and three staples had too little weight and too much resistance to crash.

She scowled at it. "Well, I'm still not."

"Ororo, be reasonable."

"I am reasonable."

Sometimes, Ororo could be their most mature student. She often accepted change easily and took initiative, while the oldest student, Doug, was more passive and Scott, who had shown better leadership qualities, too often looked to the adults for guidance.

She didn't look mature.

Ororo was thirteen or fourteen years old—with only an approximate age, she had chosen a birthday. In two days, they would call her fourteen. She wasn't really sure, though. She looked young, her white hair falling across her eyes and the cheerful pink of her coat competing with a determined scowl.

What she said next made her seem no older: "I don't want to. That's my reason."

Charles Xavier pinched the bridge of his nose. Ever since the attack on the school, the students had struggled. He understood. He didn't fault the others, did not fault Ororo for being angry with him. Only the manner in which she reacted.

Ororo was struggling against Charles by turning her back on her education. She wouldn't come to his classes, which meant skipping half her day. Hank told him she was distracted in his classes, too. The only person against whom Ororo did not rebel was Ruth, mostly because Ruth wouldn’t stand for it.

Charles supposed he should be glad Ororo had come to speak with him now.

"You need this assignment," Charles reasoned, "or you risk not passing English."

"That doesn't matter to me."

Passing English was the least of Ororo's concerns. She was new to Western education, new to formal education of any kind, and one year was not enough for her to start seeing grades as crucial. She saw them as means of evaluating how well she had adapted, or chose to behave as though she had adapted.

Seeing that this conversation was going nowhere, Charles gave in: "You may go."

This would be a very, very long break.


	2. April 5, 1964

Dear Diary,

(That counts as two lines, Professor!)

Honestly. Dear Diary.

First, this is not a diary, this is notebook paper folded in half and then stapled. Because I don't want a diary anyway, who cares.

Second, I do not understand the diary concept. Do I assume this is someone reading? Which I won't do, because you said—because Professor Xavier said he won't read my diary unless I say so. Which, why would I do that?

So I don't want to do a diary and if anyone asks I haven't and I will find a way to hide this so it looks like it got lost. Just in case, I am sort of trying this out. I woke up early again. At least the diary is something to do.

Only sort of and I can quit if I want to.

If I quit, I don't get the extra credit and I fail English. That obviously isn't a problem at this school, where I wouldn't be the first person with those kinds of grades. I would just be a person with those kinds of grades. I do not care to be that.

Because I am smart.

No one told me this before. No one told me I was stupid, either, but people don't tell you that you are smart unless you go to school. They call you—a best translation is clever. Smart means knowing things out of books. Clever means thinking standing up and knowing what you see in the world.

When I came to the United States, when the nuns brought me to live in the orphanage, I didn't know what to expect. I expected nothing in particular. What I got…

Last year, around September, Ruth took me into the city in a terrifying car. She drives like crazy. We went into the city to see the zoo because I told her I missed the openness of home and Ruth swore never to speak a word about what happened by the elephants.

Elephants look more like us than Americans think. I saw pictures in books, the boring kind they give babies like those stupid Dick and Jane books. Dick and Jane can cram it up their backsides. I HATE DICK AND JANE.

Not that you would ever read this, Professor, but if you are, do you not see now why I hate English? Imagine you have to read those stupid poem-book things at thirteen. Imagine you have never read a book before and all that effort, all those silly sounds and struggling with English, goes into, "See Dick run. Run, Dick, run. Run run run."

(Most people know how to run, Dick. That you need this prompting suggests really bad things about you and I hope you know that.)

And the elephants look tiny, like they have round bodies—that part is true—and short legs. And that part is not true. They have long, thin(ish) legs and yes, their bodies are round, but when they move you see the bottom rib and it looks like mine feels if I rub my hand just there over my belly.

I watched the elephants in the zoo. They were fat and sad, locked in a tiny cage. They stretched their trunks out and I saw a little boy reach out and yank the elephant's trunk. I wish I had stuck him with lightning that second. He deserved it. I didn't, but the elephant was so loud the boy cried.

This is the part Ruth promised not to tell. I cried, too.

I wanted to let the elephants out.

They looked how I felt, taken away to a place where the sky was so small (not so bad at the mansion, though), to be gawked at by white people (also not so bad at the mansion).

Even if I let them out of the little cages, they would still be in the city. They were truly prisoners. They had no chance of freedom.

Stupid diary. Now I feel sad again.

Cram it with cherries, diary. I am going to wake Scott for pancakes.


	3. Recreation

Charles had never been someone who wanted for material possessions or comforts. He grew up with everything he could ask for and other things he wouldn't have thought about, so he never truly appreciated his bedroom for what it was.

He had touched the children's minds as they adapted to living at the school. Doug and Laurie, who came from comfortable homes, were a touch awed and uncomfortable with the extravagance.

Ororo took a more pragmatic approach, finding the bed a touch unwieldy, the room too big and empty, which explained her preference for Scott's room. To Ororo, home meant other people.

As for Scott, who seemed to be recreationally heartbreaking, he hadn't liked his room at all. He didn't like the floor, or the linens, or the nightstand. He didn't like it because every footprint, tear, stain, or dent made him feel ashamed for destroying something worth more than him.

Unfortunately there were simply no rooms in the mansion with twin beds or Charles would have placed the children there (all right, Hank would have suggested that Charles place the children there) to help them feel less out of their depth. Most of them were at least familiar with twin beds—even Ororo had slept in one at the orphanage.

Seeing the rooms through their eyes gave him a greater appreciation of his own, but that wasn't the reason he loved his bedroom this morning.

It was the view.

More than a nice view, a beautiful view. Breathtaking, really. Charles peeked through his eyelashes, trying not to do the slightest thing to spoil—

"Charles Xavier, are you staring at me?"

Ruth was lying on her belly beside him, propped up on her elbows, reading. Which would have been a beautiful sight under any circumstances. Her lack of shirt helped immensely all the same.

Charles gave a less than convincing fake snore.

Ruth laughed. "You do not snore like that."

"Yes I do," he replied. "I'm asleep."

She leaned over and kissed him. "You are not. Good morning."

Neither of them had brushed their teeth. Somehow, the kiss was not unpleasant.

"Mm. It is now."

"Yes, because you are awake."

He laughed and opened his eyes. "All right, I'm awake."

"Do you know what you say in Israel, if someone says to you 'good morning'?"

From what Ruth told him and what he had learned from knowing her, he was inclined to guess that an Israeli would give an honest answer—and tell you if she was not having a good morning. This Israeli most certainly would.

"I don't know. What do you say?"

"You say 'boker orr'. Morning light."

"Morning light," Charles repeated. "I like that." He leaned up to kiss her again.

She only stopped him when his hand migrated south.

"I do not have time."

He groaned. "You're tormenting me!"

"I know. It is a hobby. But the children will wake up."

"They can make their own breakfast."

"I know they _can."_ She kissed him in a sweet, disappointingly chaste sort of way. "Later. I promise."

Charles scanned the other minds nearby.

He respected that Ruth cared so much for the children and admired that while he had been dragged, reluctant and uncertain, into a paternal role, Ruth seemed to eagerly embrace playing mother. It was surprising, really, because she was gentle and loving and beautiful and she cooked, and she was a warrior who could kill him three ways with her pinkie.

Still, sometimes he wished she were keener on being his girlfriend than being their mother. It would make him feel less guilty that he entertained such thoughts himself.

She was already stepping into sweatpants when Charles emerged from his scan. "Scott's making pancakes," he reported.

Ruth paused. "This is true and you are not only saying it?"

"It's true."

After another pause, another consideration, she asked, "Shall we talk about what you have hidden in your study?"


	4. Effort

"Alex! Alex!"

Scott hammered on his brother's bedroom door. His hand was starting to throb from knocking so long. He paused and switched the plate of pancakes to another hand.

"Maybe he doesn't want to be bothered," Ororo suggested. She stood a few feet away, ostensibly here for moral support, partially curious—about Alex, about how he was, about what he would do to Scott for waking him.

"Alexander! Cole! Summers!" Each name was punctuated with another knock.

The door swung open. There stood Alex, his hair determinedly disheveled, eyes bleary and red. Alex was fair-haired and could usually skip a few days' shaving without much to show for it, but his stubble was clear now. He wore an old t-shirt and his left sock.

Scott looked up at the ceiling.

"Brought you something to eat," he said, shoving the plate in Alex's general direction.

"This is how you're spending Tuesday morning?"

"It's Sunday, Alex."

"Not hungry."

Scott wasn't the sort to be naturally skilled at everything. Not that anyone said so, but he knew he was the slow kid. Ororo was the cleverest student in school and no secret there, Doug sometimes needed an extra nudge but got there in the end, Laurie made average marks and was constantly told to apply herself.

Scott was praised for his effort.

He was dim, and that was okay—but he was not without skills. He made damn good pancakes. And his brother was a rotten liar, because the hallway smelled so good he should have been licking the walls.

"Alex. You don't eat."

"Eat plenty."

"The crap in your room is not 'eating'," Scott retorted. He knew he sounded like someone's grandmother saying so and everyone had a stash, but there were limits. He knew Doug was partial to chocolate chip cookies, and he himself had snacked on Snickers bars to keep up with a seemingly impossible teenage appetite.

Alex couldn't live off the corn chips, Cheetos, and similar junk food stored in his room.

"Goin'a bed," Alex murmured. He barely left his bedroom the past few weeks. From the looks of him, he barely left his bed.

"Just—please?" Scott insisted. He still had his face turned to the ceiling, but even if he could give puppy dog eyes, he doubted Alex would fall for that. "For me. As a favor."

"Piss off, Mother."

Scott swallowed. What he was about to say was a very low blow and he knew it. Nonetheless, "She wouldn't want to see you this way."

Alex growled—literally growled at him—and Scott knew he had gone too far, but he did it for Alex's good. Because Alex wasn't taking care of himself anymore.

In a small, vulnerable voice, he said, "Please, Alex, you're my brother."

It was manipulative, sure, but it wasn't false. That was why it worked. Alex gave Scott a filthy look and took the plate.

"And please put some pants on!" Scott called to the closing door.

"Weird thing to show off," Ororo commented.

"He's not showing off," Scott replied. "He's just depressed." His face was still crimson.

Ororo shrugged and said, "I've seen bigger on the boys in the village." After an awkward moment in which Scott didn't know what to say and Ororo let him wait longer than was necessary, she continued, "Alex has his breakfast. Can I have pancakes, too?"

"Of course. D'you mind warming up the syrup? I'll be right there, I just want to tell everyone else in case they're hungry too."

Ororo gave him a look that reminded him she was really the last person who should be cooking anything, ever, including warming the syrup, but she went to try. Scott went to knock on doors and hopefully not wake anyone up.

He tracked Hank down in the lab and gleaned from distracted half-sentences that he would join them in a moment, thank you, just busy now. And something seemed to be exploding, but Hank was calm about it, so Scott didn't worry. He just backed away slowly.

Professor Xavier wasn't in his study, so Scott, after a moment's hesitation, decided to avoid his bedroom. The Professor could read their thoughts, he would know about pancakes. Plus when he and Ruth were together, as far as Scott could tell, it was in his bedroom. Not that Scott gave much thought to these things—he certainly tried to avoid it!—but he noticed a while ago that Ruth changed her sheets very rarely and…

So he headed to Ruth's bedroom in case she was awake.

Scott did not know that, over the past couple of weeks, they had started to favor her bedroom. Lost in thought, he didn't realize he was hearing the buzz of their voices until he caught his name.

"Scott does not like things to change."

He paused. Was that true? Of course, Sean, but… that wasn't about change… and Alex, he was suffering. But then, Scott had taken a while getting used to the other kids when the school first opened, so he guessed Ruth was right.

Did that mean they were going to have more students? Scott wanted to tell them that he didn't mind, that the others were his friend now and he wanted everyone to have the opportunities he'd had.

That meant admitting he was eavesdropping, though.

All of this went through Scott's mind in a second and before he had a chance to take a step back and sneak off, he heard the Professor answer:

"He's spent most of his life in care, he must know this is coming."

That wasn't about new students.

Scott knew eavesdropping was wrong and still might have crept away, except that he heard, "Charles, this is too much to spring on him at once. He deserves to know. And so does Ororo."

"This isn't about Ororo, and until I'm certain—"

"This is absolutely about Ororo. She will understand, but she will want to know why she is still your foster-daughter and he is not."

Well, that was a baseball bat to the chest.

"Because he's a boy." Professor Xavier sounded annoyed—must have been, to give a smartass retort. "Until I'm certain, I shouldn't speak to either of them about it."

This time Scott did creep away. He'd heard enough and wished he hadn't.

He was going back.

He knew he wouldn't have to go back to the same orphanage in Omaha. That didn't make it much easier.


	5. Doubt

Hank never wanted to be a teacher.

Yes, he wanted to be a scientist, a researcher, and he knew that two of the most important aspects of research were replicability and communicability—publish or perish, and such.

But teaching was never the goal. It was something he might have to do. Even when Charles began planning his school, Hank did not jump at the opportunity to teach. Only after weeks of Charles' reasoning and cajoling did Hank give in, and then mostly because he would be here anyway.

He wasn't sure how he felt about teaching now.

At the moment, he sat in front of his favorite microscope, making semi-legible notes on his observations. He was quietly conducting his research with a mix of the best scientific implements a person could order through the mail with Charles's bank card, and things built himself because that was better. It was simply Hank's way. He started basic and progressed, like when he built a reusable drip coffee filter and eventually decided the moka pot brewed a better cup than a percolator.

From behind him came a frustrated sigh and the sound of an eraser.

"Stop it," Hank said without turning around.

The eraser stopped.

Hank returned to his cells for a moment, just observing now. It was fascinating. He had never seen reactions like this before. He could have watched for hours and found himself wondering: if this was the cells' reaction on a slide, what were they like where they belonged? Watching altered cellular reactions to a bodily injury…

Luckily he was spared those fascinating and disturbing thoughts by the sound of a notebook hitting one of his cabinets. Hank looked up from his microscope.

He was pretty sure the appropriate reaction would have been contrition. (All those cells forming something much more confusing but often likewise predictable.) Scott just looked baffled, like the notebook had made a break for freedom. Hank watched him for a moment, then adjusted his glasses like the lenses repositioned half a centimeter would make the situation clearer.

"What happened that night?" Scott asked.

"Which night?"

"With Sean."

Hank shook his head. "I wasn't with them," he said, as he had dozens of times before. He respected Scott's need to learn the truth, but there was only one person who knew it and Scott would never ask him.

"Has the Professor talked to you about getting rid of me?"

Mostly, when that subject came up, Charles was talking about Scott's thoughts. He talked to Hank because he didn't know what to do about Scott's continued belief that he would be "sent back".

"The first few months, he would talk about it. You weren't happy. He thought someone else might be better able to take care of you."

Mostly that had been strange for Hank because he was used to self-doubt—he hadn't realized a man like Charles understood the concept.

"More recently?" Scott pressed.

"Not in a year, at least."

Scott nodded. "He's talking to Ruth about it."

"He should talk to Ruth about things."

Hank and Charles were friends, but Hank recognized that Charles's relationship with Ruth was something different. They were partners, in so many ways. So Hank didn't mind that Charles confided in Ruth, especially about the children.

The look on Scott's face said that Hank had missed something important.

"Oh—no, Scott, he's not talking about—he talks to Ruth about you and Ororo, but not about getting rid of you."

"Not her," Scott said, "just me."

"He wouldn't."

"I know what I heard." He didn't sound frantic or even afraid. He sounded a little angry and something else—resigned.

Hank shook his head. He knew Charles, knew that Charles would never do that. Scott was like a son to him.

"This is the only chance I'll ever have for a real education and I still can't do it." And so they returned to the discarded notebook lying on the floor.

When Scott first arrived, he was like a baby in some ways. He could basically look after himself, excepting looking after his education, but he didn't understand how the world worked. He still didn't.

That wasn't really something Hank could help with.

Science, however…

"Pick up your notebook and we'll start over."

"No."

It wasn't a 'no' like Ororo would give. This 'no' was accompanied by slumped shoulders and a head buried in hands.

Charles wasn't sending Scott away. Even if he would ever think that, which he wouldn't, Ruth would never allow it. Hank remembered the sound of Raven's bones crunching, the newfound appreciation he felt for Ruth's strength. In terms of brute strength he was actually stronger, but Ruth was the soldier.

The sound—the crunching—just thinking about it made Hank wince.

Hank did not defend what Raven did. Ruth only hurt her because Raven threatened Ororo, held a knife to her throat. But he knew that Charles had been so determined to believe in Raven. Maybe it was easier for someone like Ruth, but that could have been the end of her and Charles. She didn't stop to think that Raven was probably bluffing—she was cold, but she wouldn't hurt a child.

Ruth didn't think about any of that. And she certainly wouldn't let Charles return Scott to an orphanage, even if Charles had been thinking about it. Which he hadn't.

Hank picked up the notebook and pulled a lab stool over to the microscope. It was an older one and not the best. When someone's eyes can destroy whatever lies in front of them, they're not an ideal candidate for using one's best laboratory equipment.

Hank peered into the microscope then looked back to the notebook.

Scott was supposed to be drawing what he saw, which should have been plant cells. He had been doing something vaguely akin to that, except that no plant cells were visible. Hank adjusted the slide.

"You should have a better view now. Try again."

Scott moved like his blood was slowly-setting cement, but he picked up the pencil and started to draw.

After a while, he asked, "Did you want more of my blood?"

Hank had been examining Scott's blood for some time, fascinated by the experimentation and the changes it left in the cells. He would be lying to say there were not three experiments currently under observation involving Scott's cells.

"Charles would never get rid of you. When you realize that, you're going to be embarrassed about what you just said to me."


	6. Annoy

Ruth had suggested that, in the full spirit of spring break, they subsist entirely off of delivery food, eat off paper plates and use plastic cutlery. There would be as few dishes to wash as possible. But Charles looked so horrified at the thought of plastic cutlery, she laughed it off.

She was still tired of doing the dishes. She stood at the sink, scrubbing a plate, but thinking about that. The kids could take over. Or Hank, although Hank would clog the drain some with blue fur—not that Ruth would say this. She knew he felt self-conscious about his fur.

Ruth ignored the raised voices from the other room, but as soon as she heard the first punch, she set down the dish and hurried into the dining room.

"Don't be such a girl!"

"Cut it out!"

Scott and Ororo were supposed to be clearing the table. In a way, they had done that, but Ruth did not mean she wanted plates smashed on the floor. Nor was Scott meant to be throwing Ororo into the wall—not that she was terribly surprised, Ororo would fight mean but Scott had better skills.

"Enough!"

But very nice tai sabaki.

And Ruth had spent too long trying to make Scott spar with Ororo. She never wanted it to be this rough, but he was not comfortable fighting a girl. She wanted him to understand that a woman might attack him. That defending yourself against any attacker is right.

It was over in two seconds, when Scott knocked Ororo down and she failed to throw up an arm bar.

"Enough," Ruth repeated, hauling Scott up and twisting his arm back.

"It's not me!" he objected. "It's not—"

Ororo scrambled to her feet and did something that, while allowed in krav maga, had always been excluded from Ruth's lessons: went to punch him in the groin. Ruth momentarily dropped Scott's arm, restrained Ororo, and had each of them by the scruff of the neck in under two seconds.

After a few moments' thought, realizing only one of the children was struggling, Ruth released Scott. "Go into the kitchen, finish the dishes."

He nodded and went.

She pressed Ororo into a chair. Ororo started to get up and Ruth rested a hand heavily on her shoulder. " _Shvi_."

Ororo shouted at her in Arabic, the sort of things Charles would have grounded her for once he overcame the shock of what she suggested he, his grandmother, and his thrice-damned sister had done with various barnyard animals. (He was _not_ Welsh.) So it was wise to use a language he would not understand.

"You are finished now?" Ruth asked.

"No," Ororo retorted. She crossed her arms over her chest and shouted again.

Ruth suppressed a sigh. This was going to be difficult enough. Once she had picked through this mess, she needed to talk to Ororo about wearing a bra.

For now, Ruth shouted back. The two of them snapped at, to, and over each other until it wasn't words but syllables, sounds, tones. Until finally abruptly, Ororo went quiet.

"You need to tell me what is going on."

"Nothing's going on, I'm fine," Ororo replied, not at all convincingly.

Ruth looked her up and down. The girl wasn't moving right, wasn't focusing well, and Ruth realized at once what was going on. How had they overlooked this?

"When is the last time you slept through the night?"

Ororo didn't answer.

"Are you hurt?"

No answer. Didn't need one. Ruth had trained Scott, she knew he took cares to avoid causing harm. He would have been especially careful with his sister.

She formed her question to annoy Ororo: "Why did you start the fight?"

Ororo glared, but didn't answer.

Ruth sighed. She looked past Ororo and nodded at the man in the doorway. Of course the commotion had attracted Charles. His power could be particularly useful in this area. When he nodded, Ruth turned back to Ororo.

"Tomorrow is your birthday. Whatever you do, there will be cake and presents and we will sing you a silly song. So, I think, you should decide how you want to feel." Then she leaned forward and kissed Ororo's forehead.

And Ororo hated her for it, because with three sentences and one gentle move, Ruth destroyed everything. It was so much easier being angry. Now Ororo felt sorry and, worse, she felt loved.

It made her blush.

She sighed. "Three weeks, I think. A few nights were better."

"Not since the attack," Ruth summarized.

Ororo nodded. She had been the first one to spot the Brotherhood. Everyone fought them and, at times, Ororo and Scott had been separated from the others. They fought the Brotherhood alone. But Ororo was the one to spot them, to be truly alone and vulnerable and unprepared.

"I'm okay until it's dark and I'm alone. Then I get scared—because someone might be outside. They could be. And I want to check, I'm afraid to check but more afraid not to. Nothing you can say will make this better," Ororo warned. She didn't want to be scared like that, but she was and it was a perfectly reasonable fear. It was possible. It had happened.

Ruth didn't say anything to help. She leaned forward and hugged Ororo, held her for a while.

"This will be put right."

Ororo shook her head. Her fingers went to her neck. She felt her pulse under the scar there. "No. It can't."

"The Brotherhood won't come back," Charles said. Ruth shot him a less than grateful look. Ororo did not look at him at all. "They're in custody, Ororo. The CIA won't just let them go."

"And?" Ruth asked.

Now Ororo did look between them. She didn't remember her real parents; she was five when they died. Later she lived with a group of thieves and beggars, children, with their thief-lord Achmed. No one questioned Achmed... although now that she thought about it, she was not sure how old he had really been. Among the Maasai, she answered mostly to a woman named Ainet, but really to no one.

So it was new for her to watch Mommy and Daddy fight. She didn't like the feeling.

There was no winning here. Finally Charles lowered his eyes. "And they have my sister. The CIA has my sister in custody and they’re taking every precaution."

Ororo swallowed. In Arabic, she told Ruth, "You looked like you wanted to kill her."

Ruth looked right at Charles as she answered, in English, "I did."

"I wish you had. Then she would never come back."


	7. Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Charles reads from is English Fairy Tales collected by Joseph Jacobs.

Ruth wasn't like other women Charles had known.

She didn't play games. If she wanted something, she said as much. Well, if she wanted something she went after it herself, but if she wanted something from him he said as much. (The only exception was the months she spent wanting _him,_ waiting for him to notice, and there had been some aggressive flirtation when the children were not present.)

He appreciated the straightforwardness of their relationship. So as he headed into Ororo's bedroom, he tried to sort out how exactly he had been talked into this.

He realized he had no idea what Ororo did in her spare time. Scott, of course, would have been reading. Doug put a tremendous amount of time into his studies and found his own sort of joy in everything, but what he loved best was music. Laurie liked to draw and loved to paint her nails—how she managed those little pinkie-nail-sized flowers, he would never know.

But Ororo's free time was something of a mystery. As long as she didn't get into too much trouble, Charles had seen no reason to infringe. Now he found her sitting on her bed, bouncing a quarter across her knuckles. Her hair hung loose around her face, somewhere between not long enough for a ponytail but long enough to need one.

He was relieved to see her dressed. She had invited him in, but Ororo's opinion of modesty differed some from his. Much as he tried to respect that this was simply cultural, she was growing up and it was extremely awkward when she chose to be unclothed.

Now she wore an oversized The Who t-shirt. Charles wasn't sure she cared about that band either way, but the t-shirt was clearly a castoff (or borrowed without permission) from Doug.

She placed the quarter on her nightstand. "Hi, Professor."

"Hi, Ororo."

He waited, but she had nothing else to say.

"Ruth seems to think you might feel better if someone stayed with you until you fell asleep."

Ororo shrugged. "And she made you do it."

"Well, I didn't mind!"

He did. He had argued. Ruth was better with the children and while Charles felt he had some understanding of Scott, Ororo was… well, he claimed it was because she was more like Ruth. Ruth understood more about her culture and certainly more about being a teenage girl.

Again she said nothing. This wasn't a situation either of them felt fully prepared for.

Charles was at least mildly prepared. "I brought a book," he offered.

Ororo wasn't impressed. "Scott's in the other hall."

"Just give it a go. Please—for me."

As angry as she had been lately, Ororo knew that Charles had done a lot for her. He and Ruth had taken her in, which was a big thing to do. They educated her—and Hank did, of course—and worked at a decent pace for her, so she had just about caught up to her peers in many areas. (History and science were struggles, there was a lot of background.) Mostly, though, Charles talked to her and listened to her.

So she scooted back onto her pillow and burrowed under the covers. Completely.

"Ororo?"

"It's too weird." Her voice was muffled.

"Er… all right. This story is called 'Tom Tit Tot'."

Ororo giggled—'tit'—but Charles chose to ignore that.

He read about a woman who over-baked five pies and told her daughter to put them on a shelf to cool. The daughter ate all five pies instead. When the woman found out, she went to sit outside, singing to herself: _My darter ha' ate five, five pies to-day_. Then, at just that moment, the king happened to be coming down the road. He asked what the woman had just said, and she lied because she was ashamed of her daughter: _My darter ha' spun five, five skeins to-day_.

"…'Stars o' mine!' said the king, 'I have—'"

"I have a question."

Charles looked up from his book. Most of Ororo was still hidden. Just her face poked out from beneath the covers.

"Yes, Ororo?"

"What is 'skeins'? Is it like milk?"

He chuckled. "Like milk? Where would you get that idea?"

She shrugged. "In one of Scott's books they talk about skeinning cream off the milk."

"What? Oh, _skimming_!" Charles realized. "One skims cream. That's removing from a liquid whatever floats to the top—and why it does so would be an excellent question for Hank. A _skein_ is a measure of yarn."

Ororo's forehead wrinkled. "Of… stories?"

"Ah, another misunderstanding there, I'm afraid. A yarn can mean a story. It's also, well, like string but thicker. That orange cardigan you like is made of yarn."

Another thing he had done: without Charles, she wouldn’t know words like ‘cardigan’ and ‘aubergine’. Actually aubergines she was not crazy about, but what a fun word to say!

"Oh. Okay."

She watched him for a moment, then pulled the covers back over her head. Charles took this as his cue to continue.

So he read about how the woman allowed the king to marry her daughter, as he did on the provision that she would have all she wanted for eleven months, and for the twelfth she would spin five skeins a day or have her head chopped off. (Muffled sounds of disapproval from the blankets.)

However, not only could the girl not spin five skeins of flax—"A sort of fiber, from a plant"—she couldn't spin at all! Luckily a strange creature with black skin and a tail heard her crying and made her a deal: he would take the flax every day and every day bring it back spun, and she should have five guesses as to his name. If she hadn't guessed rightly by the end of the month, she would be his.

"Professor?"

"Yes, Ororo?"

"You know the king brings her the flax and food every day and he locks her up?"

Charles answered warily, "Yes," because that was what the story said. He knew it was a quite wrong thing to do, but he was only reading.

But Ororo did not object as he expected.

Instead she asked, "Where does she pee?"

"In those days they used chamberpots, a basin kept under the bed. Mostly they were used at night. I suppose the princess—"

"Queen," Ororo corrected. "She's married the king, that makes her queen."

"It does indeed. The queen must have used a chamberpot."

"And 'impet'?"

"A sort of small, otherworldly creature—a little like a fairy, if fairies were very unpleasant."

"And 'maliceful'?"

"Malice is ill will."

She nodded. "Thank you, I think I'm caught up."

As Charles continued to read, the queen kept trying and failing to guess the creature's name. On the last night but one, the king decided to have supper with her—"Another term for dinner." "I knew that one!"—and as they ate, he told the story of a hunt. On this hunt he encountered a small, dark creature with a tail who spun and sang a strange song: _Nimmy nimmy not/My name's Tom Tit Tot_.

So on the final night, when the creature came to her again, the woman pretended to be frightened as she guessed once, twice, thrice what his name might be. A fourth guess and he stepped forward, reaching toward his prize… and then she sang at him: _Nimmy nimmy not/Your name is Tom Tit Tot!_

"Well, when that heard her, that gave an awful shriek and away that flew into the dark, and she never saw it any more," Charles finished. "The end."

Ororo said nothing for a moment. Then, still buried under the blankets, "I don't like that story."

"No?"

"The girl was stupid. She didn't do anything, and she was only lucky with what the king told her, plus she only had eleven months left to live because now the thing is gone and can't spin her flax anymore."

"I suppose that is a… rather gaping plot hole," Charles admitted. He hadn't thought of it, but the major villain really wasn't Tom Tit Tot, was it? The villain was the king, who would lop the poor girl's head off in about a year.

"And anyway it's just a stupid princess story and I don't much care for those. Why can't the girl do something fun, like Peter Pan? All she does is cry and get married. At least she could've… made a rope and climbed out of the castle. She could go find Tom Tits herself."

Charles overlooked that one more time, deciding a third go and he would comment. However, what he heard next from the covers was not an objection but a yawn.

"Yes, she should have," he agreed mildly.

Ororo shifted. Her hand snuck out and pulled the pillow under the covers with her.

"Professor?"

"Yes, Ororo?"

He expected another objection about the silliness of the story—and he had to admit, it _was_ rather silly.

Instead she said, "Could you stay, just until I fall asleep?"

"Yes. Of course I'll stay."


	8. April 6, 1964

Dear Diary,

Today is my birthday and I don't want it to be. Partly because everyone talks about having a happy birthday and I don't feel happy. Also it's hard to have an April birthday in this family. Sean had an April birthday. I can't be happy with it knowing I am 14 now and he was supposed to be 20 a few days ago.

Does Sean keep getting older? Or is he always 19? He's a lot younger than Alex (you would not always know from the way Alex is) and I wonder… I wonder if one day I will be older than Sean. Can you catch up to a dead person? Is that cheating? It feels like it should be cheating.

When I lived with the Maasai, a few people died. They would cover the body with grass and some rocks and wait for the hyenas to eat them. We don't have Sean's body because Alex couldn't bring it back. If we did, we would put it in the ground.

Maybe they do this because they are afraid. The Maasai say, when a person is eaten by the hyenas on the first night, that person was good. Maybe they are afraid the hyenas would not eat you on your first night. But I think they would have eaten Sean. Except, of course, that there are no hyenas here. I didn’t consider that before. I knew when I came here that there was not enough space, that everything was too close together. I didn’t consider the loss of the wild. Nothing just happens in New York. Even here, outside the city and with the land the Professor owns but is definitely not looking after, everything is decided. People put buildings here and there, bring in animals. Nothing just IS.

Last night Professor Xavier read a story from an old book he has. I don't know why he did it (besides that Ruth made him) but I like that he did. I felt close to him in a way I don't usually feel to people in this country. No one just talks to you the way nothing just is. Scott is supposed to be my best friend and he's more of a friend than anyone else, but he's so awkward. You can't have a conversation with him, you have to talk about something and it's not the same.

So I liked when he read me the story. I'm not going to say anything, but I hope he does that again.

But it's still my birthday and I'm awake early again, because I wake up like that. It's sudden and I'm scared. I'm asleep, then awake. Asleep, then scared. For a few seconds I don't want to open my eyes. I know she's here, waiting for me to see her before she starts talking again.

That horrible bitch.

The worst thing…

I don't want to think about that right now. It's my birthday.

The last one was Sean’s and it didn’t happen, before that was Doug's and it brought Raven. She brought worse.

Sean wanted chocolate cake for his birthday.

I think I felt a lot different when I wrote to you yesterday.


	9. Ask

When Alex didn't answer the third time, Scott stopped knocking and opened the door. It was Monday, so he shouldn't have been home, anyway—he had his algebra class. (Alex's algebra class was not, of course, to be confused with, "No, Scott, slope-intercept form cannot be simplified further… because it's on the vertical axis… no, that's the y-axis…")

Scott pushed open the door and hit the light switch. He had waited all weekend for this. The room was empty, it could be cleaned—sanitized—

"The hell?!" Alex asked.

He was sprawled across the bed, face-down and naked except a pair of boxers. The covers were in a pile on the floor. He raised his head and twisted to squint at whoever dared to turn on the goddamn light… like he didn't already know.

"Alex?"

"Get out."

"Alex, you—"

Alex reached forward, grabbed something off the floor, and hurled it. Scott batted the beer bottle away before it hit him. A few drops spilled on the floor. Not much, it was mostly empty.

"Shouldn't you be at school?" Scott asked.

"Spring break. Go."

"But last week was—"

"It's two weeks. Get out!"

"Can I at least take the garbage—"

Scott ducked. A bottle whizzed past his head and shattered in the hallway. He turned off the lights and backed out of the room.

This whole situation had him knotted up. Even if it was just spring break, Alex barely left his room and he was drinking—and, from the smell, smoking—a lot. Scott knew he was upset about Sean. They all were, but it was hardest on Alex. Not only had he been the closest to Sean, he had been with him when he died.

Not that he had talked about it since the day he came home— _I couldn't protect him._

So Alex had every right to be in pain and no, it wasn't fair to ask him to be okay. Scott wasn't sure what he wanted for Alex. Not to be so alone, maybe, but he hadn't been so close with Sean. He wasn't having the same grief. Still…

Scott sighed and went to fetch a broom. The glass was dark in color, not like a beer bottle, and the smell made him gag. It didn't surprise him too much that Alex was hitting the harder stuff. He wished it surprised him.

He just tried to clean up before anyone else found out.

Scott carried broom and dustpan back to the kitchen and dumped the glass into the bin. He really should have tossed it in his bedroom or the bathroom he shared with Doug, but the smell was too much. He couldn't have that, even a hint, in his bedroom or bathroom.

Couldn't face that every day.

And of course taking out the trash with an empty bin was odd behavior.

So he dumped the glass in the kitchen trash, then opened the cabinet. They had a mostly-empty package of cookies. For good measure, he dampened a handful of paper towels and wrung them out so they would look used. Then he tossed them out and the cookie package on top of the broken glass.

Well, now he had a small stack of cookies. Whatever could he possibly do with those!

Ororo dropped into a seat opposite him about halfway through the stack. Scott moved the cookies closer to her.

"You look like shit," she said.

Scott raised his eyebrows. "Where'd you pick up that one?"

He liked Ororo's expressions, really. She seemed to take great joy in using them, sometimes bungled them in amusing ways, but most of all, she made him think about them. For example, why exactly did they say 'beating around the bush'?

She shrugged and licked the filling out of an Oreo.

"Happy birthday."

She nodded. "Can we have pancakes?"

Scott got up and started making the batter. "So, uh, is everything okay? You and Mom sounded pretty heated last night."

"We're fine."

"'Cause you were shouting—"

"People shout!" Ororo snapped. "It happens! Anyway, why didn't you tell?" She took another cookie and bit into it, this time keeping the Oreo intact. It was a different way of approaching the Oreo situation—not better or worse, just different.

"It was an accident," he said. "Call it a birthday present."

Ororo left half an Oreo on the table. "Hey." The word or the approach made him turn. She yanked up his shirt a few inches.

"Don't—"

They were clearing the table the previous night when she hooked his ankle and shoved him. She didn't remember now why she had done it, only that he was holding cutlery at the time and managed a shallow gash on his belly. Now it had a clean gauze patch taped over it.

Ororo doubted that was what he wanted hidden. He had an older scar, thick and puckered and crossed every few millimeters. Now that it was exposed, he didn't seem to remember how to move. She pushed his shirt higher, tracing the scar. All told, it formed a big I, from just above his waistband to just below his arms.

She tried to ask something, but the words weren't coming.

Finally, tracing a fingernail along tiny perpendicular lines, "What's this?"

"Stitches." The scars they left behind.

"Why?"

"They hold the pieces together."

They stayed there for a long moment, Ororo with her hand on Scott's chest, neither of them comfortable or sure what to do next. Neither of them had the context for it. He knew but didn't tell—even the Professor hadn't seen, and Hank had but didn't ask. She didn't know what it meant, besides something bad, worse than she thought happened to boys.

Neither of them heard the adults approaching until the last second, so that Charles and Ruth saw Ororo drop Scott's shirt and quickly turn away.

Ruth and Charles shared a glance. "What did we just walk in on?" he asked her, baffled and a little amused.

"You did not walk in on anything," Ruth returned.

As Charles reacted to this with undue incredulity—that wasn't really out of character for Ruth—Scott murmured, "Birthday grope," too softly for the adults to hear him.

Ororo heard, though. She laughed until her face went red and she had to lean on the counter.

He patted her shoulder and started from the room.

"Scott," Ruth murmured.

He paused. "I thought I should—I haven't checked the post in a few days."

For a moment, they stood, aware of one another's wishes—Scott's to leave, Ruth's to have everyone act like a family. But only Ruth had ever been a part of a proper family.

Finally, she nodded. "Go ahead. Come back and we'll have pancakes."

Scott opened his mouth to argue. The look Ruth gave him was enough to dry up his objections. "Just gonna be a minute," he murmured.

Ruth ruffled his hair as he passed by.

Scott squirmed away. "Aaw, Mom!"

"Scott-" Charles began, but Ruth interrupted, clearing her throat. He waited until Scott was gone before saying, "Ruth, it's not acceptable-"

"Charles, you do not see? This is affection," Ruth said. She bent down and kissed him. "Just to clarify."

* * *

 

"Ruth said I could do whatever I want today."

"What did you decide?"

Ororo shrugged.

She and Scott had cleared the table. He decided to wash the dishes—not a choice she would have made. She sat on the counter, supplying moral support.

"How about not doing homework?" he suggested. Then, before she could answer, "Wait, you don't have homework… what's your favorite thing to do?"

She shrugged again. "I never had time for that."

"What do you mean? Everyone has time for a favorite thing."

"Well… when I had a friend, with the Maasai, she was like it is with you. I liked whatever we did." She chose not to mention that this didn't have to mean doing whatever her friend did. She didn't need to mention it; Scott was almost finished washing the dishes.

"You wanna do math with me?" he asked.

Ororo groaned. "Oh, please tell me you're joking."

"I'm joking," he assured her. He rinsed the last mug and set it to dry.

"It's upside-down."

"It dries better."

"The sun would dry it."

"There's not enough sun."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

"You don't know weather. I know weather."

"Will you make me more sunshine?"

She flipped him the bird. "I'm not wasting my sunshine drying cups."

Scott grabbed a tea towel and dried his hands. "So, since it's your birthday… want to do something stupid?"

Ororo gave him her look specially reserved for moments in which she observed another culture and couldn't begin to understand it. "Why?"

"Because it's fun."

She rolled her eyes. "Dork."

"Yup. C'mon. We're gonna need sheets."

He started for the door.

"Sheets?" Ororo asked.

Scott paused and turned to her. "Are we doin' this?"

She shrugged and hopped off the counter.


	10. Mean

Hank's lab was not only well-lit but full of shiny metal surfaces that bounced the light and multiplied it. The whole thing seemed to Ruth a little like a discotheque. It was the scientific corner of a discotheque, the ball deconstructed and re-purposed as Hank had done with a car mid-February—that had been an amusing day.

"Good morning, Hank."

He replied with an observation about his experiment.

Ruth gathered from his tone that it was going well, but she asked, anyway: "This means it is going well?"

"Not precisely." He looked up from his microscope and turned. The combination of scientific terminology and his shaggy blue face made Hank seem like an alien species sometimes. "What I hoped to achieve," he began. And she barely understood half of what he said until, "…but all data is valuable, particularly in this endeavor, the more I know the better, you see, to avoid any… well, any mistakes. They could be costly and—are those pancakes?"

"They are." Scott was both very aware that Hank didn't show and busy cleaning up, and Charles had a phone call with a lawyer, so here was Ruth. With pancakes. "Since when do you care for cost?"

"I don't mean financial cost," Hank clarified. Ruth handed him the plate and he sliced off a bite with the side of his fork as he explained, "In this experiment the cost would be so much worse, I could hurt someone. Green?"

Ruth chuckled. "You know, to think of you and green, you do look a little like this character, the Grinch. You know him?"

Hank adjusted his glasses.

"This is upsetting? I apologize."

"Actually, if you have the time, I could use an opinion."

"I will understand?"

She wasn't trying, he noticed. She formed her questions as statements and let her tone clarify the meaning. Normally Ruth adapted more toward English sentence construction.

"It's an ethical dilemma."

Ruth hopped up onto a lab table. Making herself comfortable was her way of saying that she would be happy to help him. Not that he was certain he agreed with her, ethically, but these things were interesting to talk out.

At first, Hank did not begin to speak. He tried, then took a few thoughtful bites of pancakes. Finally he said, "When you were in the Army, did you ever have to do something you didn't want to do?"

She laughed. "It is called being in the Army!" she cried. "You mean did I do drills in the mud, or when it is forty degrees out? Of course. This is the life."

"No—well, yes, but I meant it to be more. When you're in the Army, you follow orders, right?"

"Yes."

"What if you're ordered to do something you think would be wrong? Like… open fire on civilians?"

"I would not do a thing like this," Ruth replied.

"Even if ordered?"

She shrugged. "Israeli Army, it is different. They tell us to refuse orders. Well, not to refuse—to think, and if it is wrong, then to refuse. Many will never need to do this. Sometimes I did. Why do you ask?"

Hank looked evasive even before his pathetic attempt at lying. "Curiosity."

"For perhaps the first time in your life, Hank McCoy, I think this is not the case."

Because she was right, he argued a point of technicality: “It’s Henry.”

* * *

After her chat with Hank, Ruth headed back for the kitchen. Normally she did not spend quite so much time there, but it was Ororo's birthday. Ruth was a firm believer in birthday cake. Or, in this case, birthday baklava, which needed several hours to set or the honey wouldn’t permeate properly.

Ruth paused just outside the kitchen. She knew she could count on Scott to keep it clean, as he had done. But the small kitchen table was usually not covered with bed linens. They weren't stacked but laid out, draped to the floor. Phone books pinned the sheets to the top of the table.

She could guess who was behind this, but the shushing and giggling really gave them away.

Like she hadn't noticed, Ruth continued into the kitchen. She put a small pan on the stove to melt butter and poured out walnuts to chop them. It was a difficult thing sometimes. Part of her power included enhanced strength, but she couldn’t turn it off: if she wasn't careful, she would break the knife. Chopping felt painstakingly slow and only when it was finally finished did she grab the nutmeg to mix with the thoroughly-chopped walnuts.

Then she took a moment to knock, hard, on the table.

"We're under attack!"

"Protect the Citadel!"

"You're such a nerd!"

"What are you two doing?" Ruth asked.

"Um…"

"It was Scott's idea!" Ororo yelped.

"What the—? I mean, yeah, but—!" Scott stammered. "And there's three of us."

"Artie doesn't count."

"Yes she does."

"Nuh-uh! Artie's not a person!"

"Well she didn't say 'you two people'. Maybe it was a count by heads."

"If it was by feet, we'd be eight."

"Yeah, but Mom said 'two'."

"Fine! _Four pairs_ of feet!"

Ruth rolled her eyes at the bickering. Sometimes it concerned her—Ororo was aggressive lately and Scott was sensitive—but this sounded like play. "Well. Enjoy your… burrow."

"It's the Fortress of Solitude," Scott said. The sheets didn't do much to muffle sound this way and there were only a few feet between them, so he didn't need to shout. Ruth recognized the term 'Fortress of Solitude', so she knew it was a Superman place, but she could still guess what Ororo murmured. The kids both laughed.

"Mom?"

"Yes, Ororo."

"Are you going to be in here a while?"

Ruth nodded before realizing that was silly. Then again… she was talking to a pile of sheets. "A little while, I am making your birthday cake."

"Will you ask Alex if he wants to play with us in the Fortress of Solitude?"

She laughed. "I will relay this message."

"Thanks, Mom!"

"Thanks, Mom!"

"Stop mimicking me."

"I'm not mimicking you, I'm agreeing with you."

"Well… stop agreeing with me. It's unnerving."


	11. Miss

There was an aimlessness to vacation days. Scott spent part of the afternoon wandering through the trees with one of his library books tucked into his back pocket. He knew he was sulking. All the same, what a place to sulk! Usually Scott came out here only to run. He appreciated it more at a slower pace.

He did not like to think of himself as someone who put emphasis on things like that. Living here, he had seen how different life was for people who had money. Beds were softer, books were plentiful and in better condition, food tasted better.

It literally tasted better.

Scott continued to eat junk like cookies and chips (when Professor Xavier couldn’t notice and frown at him), but he had a much broader idea of what 'food' was now. It could involve spices beyond salt, or vegetables that were crisp instead of soggy and called things like bok choy and bamboo (which was apparently a vegetable sometimes). Hamburgers in the school cafeteria had been gray, but meat from the same animal could be pink and actually taste like something.

He would miss the comforts, yes, but he would miss people more. He would miss thinking he was loved, which he genuinely had thought. All the same, it had to be nice to have your own _forest_.

Much as it mattered, he realized, since it wasn't like Professor Xavier was going for walks in the woods.

Scott took out his book and settled against a tree. He didn't want to think about this anymore. Instead he let his mind go quiet, not sure how much time passed before Artie batted his hand.

The cat had settled across his lap and was purring idly when they were once more interrupted.

It was the rustling of leaves that alerted him a few seconds before a gorilla-esque figure dropped to the ground in front of him. "Good evening, Scott and Artie!"

Scott looked up from his book, then looked around, judging the light. So it was evening.

"Hi, Hank."

"What are you reading?"

Scott held out the book.

"Haven't you read this already?"

"Half a dozen times. It's one of my favorites."

Hank handed the book back. "You know he wrote a sequel."

Scott nodded. " _Sweet Thursday._ I started it, but… _Cannery Row_ is like a Polaroid of a moment. Everything is different in _Sweet Thursday_ and I guess it changes to see that it all just ended. No, that doesn't make sense—"

"It makes sense," Hank interrupted. Then he changed the subject, "You know it's Ororo's birthday."

Scott sighed. He set his bookmark, accepting that he wasn't returning to the book anytime soon. "I know. Hey, you know about cars, right?"

"What do you want to know?"

Scott shifted awkwardly and Artie mewled in objection. Honestly, what was wrong with him? She had her nice comfy pillow and he kept _moving around!_ Humans! (That Scott was not specifically human was a distinction lost on her.)

"He's gonna get rid of me, you know."

Hank adjusted his glasses. "Scott—"

"He is, and he should. I can't take care of them. I'm trying, but I can't…"

Hank settled next to Scott. "First of all, Charles is not going to get rid of you. Second, you’re not here to take care of Alex and Ororo." He wasn't sure he could hold onto that secret for much longer. He didn't make any decisions around here—and that didn't bother Hank. He didn't want to be in charge. Having no authority unfortunately meant big promises carried little weight.

Scott seemed not to hear: "Alex hates me. Ororo hates me."

"No one hates you. You and Ororo were in your fort all morning."

"She kicked me out."

"She… how?" There was 'kicking out' with a blanket fort?

Scott shrugged. He didn't know what he had done wrong. Alex said women were confusing (when he wasn't saying "get out" or "leave me alone") and Scott was inclined to agree. He had been at a loss for words, so he talked about the weather. He talked about dust and tornadoes. Normally weather was a safe conversation with Ororo, so he didn't know what he had done wrong.

"Well," Hank said, "we both know you're not going to miss Ororo's birthday dinner. Why don't we head back?"

Scott didn't want to. He wanted to stay outside, sleep here if it would keep distance between himself and too many hard questions. It was pointless, though. He couldn't hide from his thoughts—or from his mother.

"Yeah, okay."

Scott carried Artie as they headed back. Hank deigned to walk on the ground for a while, then swung from the trees instead. Neither of them had much to say.

Somethings, though—sometimes Scott would glance around. It might take a few seconds, but he could always spot Hank in the red blur of leaves.


	12. Birthday

Scott tried to sulk. He genuinely did. Everything going on weighed hard on him, even though he knew it wasn't personal. Alex was grieving. Scott knew that. It still upset him that his brother was so ready to throw a SoCo bottle at his head. And Ororo… maybe her being so annoyed with him was a girl thing.

Besides, Doug said people liked and trusted him.

So why did it feel so personal?

Scott just wanted to sit on his own and be miserable. He had done it earlier and that took him to a sort of peaceful, if painful, place. Of course Hank put a stop to that outside. Inside, Scott wasn't the only one to hesitate at the dinner table.

Ororo and Ruth often used Arabic for private conversations. This was the first time Scott, Charles, and Hank had the distinct impression they were being talked about—mostly because they were all trying to understand the foods in front of them.

"Hawashi," Ruth said, pointing to what looked like flat bread stuffed with meat. "This is like… Egyptian hamburger. Koshari," was a bowl of red goop with bits and pieces in it. The goop looked almost like tomato sauce, which was probably why Scott thought he saw macaroni mixed in. "And this one you call garbanzo beans. But it is better."

Charles cleared his throat the way he did when he felt uncomfortable.

Ororo reached for the red goopy stuff. Scott went for what looked like a hamburger, even knowing he would never pronounce the name. New foods weren't too intimidating for him. He had never eaten Chinese food before coming here and that was delicious! So foods from different cultures didn't worry him.

"This is _awesome!_ "

Ruth's response was automatic: "Don't talk with your mouth full. And thank you."

Scott nodded.

He still wished he were someplace else and couldn't bring himself to look at Charles, but he couldn't deny that this was a new, wonderful food.

While Hank, Ruth, and Charles shifted into a conversation about curriculum for rest of spring semester, Ororo caught Scott's attention and rolled her eyes. He couldn't do the same (or, he could, but it wouldn't make a difference with his glasses) so he nodded.

She leaned nearer to whisper, "Why are you being such a pisspot?"

"I'm not being a pisspot," he retorted. "Besides, who taught you that word?"

"It's a good word!"

"You did not need that word."

"I 100% needed that word."

"If you insist."

Ororo wasn't sure how to respond to that, so she punched him on the shoulder. He hit back. She shoved him.

Before they could devolve into a full-out brawl, Charles interrupted: "Honestly, you two. Most families don't behave this way!"

Ruth and Hank both laughed out loud. They didn't answer that and didn't need to: most families absolutely behaved that way. Ororo was more like a brother than a sister to Scott and, like any teenage brothers, they were not above solving problems with their fists.

They stopped shoving and sat up straight.

"Sorry," Ororo said.

"Yeah," Scott agreed.

"Even though he started it."

"How did I start it?"

"You were there!"

The thought flashed through his mind, strong and bitter: _soon you won't need to worry about that._

"I apologize for my continued existence."

"Anyway," Ororo continued, "what's so great about being like most people? If 'normal' was everyone at the orphanage I don't want to be normal. They have Dick and Jane and the hokey-pokey and other cr—stuff," she amended at the last moment, catching a warning look from Charles.

"Dick and Jane are rather boring," Hank offered.

Scott, who liked the primers, said nothing. He knew they weren't great literature, but he remembered his mom starting to read them to him. Later, he was able to figure out words for himself, without an adult to help him.

"What is hokey-pokey?" Ruth asked. "This is also a book?"

"It's a dance," Hank explained.

"It's a stupid dance," Ororo added.

"It helps little kids learn left and right. I found it… less than scintillating during my own academic career," Hank admitted, "but it seemed to entertain second graders."

"I was never a second grader," Ororo retorted.

"Fair enough," Hank ceded.

For someone with only a couple years of formal education, she was remarkably advanced. Her reading and writing left something to be desired, but mathematically, she was at the same level as Doug, who was eighteen and a high school senior. It made sense that some of the simpler activities had bored her.

As Hank, Ruth, and Ororo continued with a discussion of foolish childhood things, Charles said, softly, "Scott."

Scott attempted to look innocent.

Charles shook his head: he wasn't falling for it.

Scott sighed. He glanced at Ororo, who seemed enthusiastically engaged in shredding the 'Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes' song. It was her birthday, after all… so he handed over _Cannery Row._

"You may have it back tomorrow."

Like that was any consolation!

Neither of them liked this. The very concept of denying someone reading materials seemed cruel to Charles, but he genuinely believed it was for the best. Other people were so important to Scott—everyone at the table, for example, as well as Alex, Doug, and Laurie. But interaction meant risking being hurt or disappointed and it was a risk Scott sometimes wouldn't take. The 'no books at the table' rule was meant to make him interact.

For the first time, he seemed genuinely angry about it. He sighed and picked at the garbanzo beans on his plate, which were a lot tastier than he cared to admit.

Then a thought snapped through Scott's mind, a memory— _teach you to look at me like that, worthless little idiot—_ and it had never been Charles. Perhaps he had raised his voice once or twice, but he had never threatened, never been violent, never insulted. It didn't matter. The orphanage resurfaced and Scott flinched his attention back to his hands.

Ruth put a stop to everyone's sulking by adding birthday cake—or, in this case, birthday baklava, since Ororo determined it was even better than chocolate cake (the best of the cakes). Ruth and Ororo didn't bother trying to eat baklava neatly. Both knew that the honey-soaked pastry was impossible to eat without making a mess of one's hands and face.

"Is this what people traditionally do in Egypt?" Hank asked. He had a piece of baklava held carefully, almost like a scientific specimen, between two very pointed nails.

"Baklava, yes. For birthdays?" Ororo shrugged. "I don't remember a birthday before. I picked this one because I like spring. The way the air feels light… I wanted to do the…" She said the word in Arabic.

"Equinox," Ruth supplied.

"That. But I couldn't remember the name of March. I like April, though. I like this birthday."


	13. Real

_Once upon a time, there was a farmer and his wife who had one daughter, and she was courted by a gentleman. Every evening he used to come and see her, and stop to supper at the farmhouse, and the daughter used to be sent down into the cellar to draw the beer for supper. So one—_

"Wait, wait, wait. So he stops at the house and they give him beer, just 'cause he likes their daughter? Is that like her dowry?" Ororo rolled that word around like a hard candy. _Dowry_. She picked up the strangest of terms sometimes, but she seemed to enjoy them.

"Well, no, it's simple hospitality."

"Do they really like him a lot?"

Charles suppressed the urge to sigh. It had not been the easiest of days. Granted, there had been baklava. He knew of that from his trip to Egypt several years ago. Aware that travel brought new and sometimes unique experiences, he had been genuinely sorry to think he would never again eat baklava. Luckily, he had been wrong!

And the kids' fort was… unexpected. Adorable. It was left up because no one had the heart to take it down.

Still, after several frustrating telephone calls with a lawyer, Charles was more than ready to just call it a night. He was surprised when he heard in Ororo's thoughts that she had really enjoyed the previous night's story. So here he was once more, reading an old folktale to a now-14-year-old girl who refused to come out from beneath the covers.

"Beer," he explained, "was quite common at that time. It was safe to drink, while much water was not. May I continue?"

"Yes, please."

_So one evening she had gone down to draw the beer, and she happened to look up at the ceiling while she was drawing, and she saw a mallet stuck in one of the beams._

Charles made it through the rest of the paragraph: the girl became upset at the thought that she might one day have a son, who might be drawing the beer as she was, and the mallet might fall and kill him. So she started crying. Then her mother came down, heard about the hypothetical son, and started crying too. And the father.

"Are they fu—"

"Ororo Munroe, you will watch your language."

She had heard the same warning issued a dozen times (only _Scott Matthew Summers_ in place of _Ororo Munroe_ ). For the first time, she wished she had a middle name.

"But that's stupid," she objected.

"This story is called 'The Three Sillies'," he reminded her. He kept his finger on the page to mark his place. Although she remained under the covers, he looked in her general direction as he spoke. To do otherwise felt strange.

"Is that the real name?"

"It is. May I continue?"

"Yes." Then, after a pause, "Please."

Charles read on. The gentleman came down into the cellar to see what was happening, but rather than cry, he laughed. He pulled down the mallet and said he would go off and travel and return when he had met three sillier people.

Well, wouldn't you know it, but he happened upon a woman who found grass growing on her roof, and so guided her cow up the ladder. But for safety's sake, the woman tied a string to the cow's neck, ran the string down the chimney, and tied the other end to her wrist. Of course the cow fell, strangling itself and yanking the woman up the chimney. She got stuck halfway through and suffocated.

Later, he met a man who tried to put his trousers on by hanging them open from the dresser and jumping into them...

Charles had to stop for a moment. Ororo was halfway hysterical with laughter. Even he had to admit that the thought of someone trying to jump into their trousers was pretty funny and it was good to hear her laugh.

The story was nearly over now. The gentleman finally encountered a village full of people one night, with rakes and nets, trying to rescue the moon from a pond. Although he showed them the moon still in the sky, they refused to believe in it.

He had encountered three people even sillier than the farmers—so he went back and married the young woman. "…and if they didn't live happy for ever after, that's nothing to do with you or me."

Ororo pushed back the covers and sat up. "It doesn't say that, does it?" she asked. "Really?"

"It does." Charles offered the book, but she shook her head. Reading was _not_ her favorite subject. "Have you had a nice birthday?" he asked.

She nodded. "The best. Thank you. Does it really count, though?"

"Of course it counts."

"But we don't know my real birthday."

Charles was inclined to point out that a birthday was as much about celebrating a mother as a child, but he kept the thought to himself. Mentioning Ororo's birth mother was probably only going to cause her pain.

Instead, he reasoned, "Perhaps the day itself is only ceremonial. It's the day on which we agree to celebrate the fact that you're here."

Ororo thought about that, then looked down at her hands. It wasn't often she found herself at a loss for words. Finally she said, "So I had a lot of births. One of the reasons I'm here is 'cause someone found me once and taught me how to be strong. Another is the day I first used my powers… the day I came to this country or the day you and Ruth brought me home."

"Yours has been an eventful life," Charles agreed. "I suppose it's both simplest and most consistent to mark things by the age of your physical body." She didn't have a response for that, so after a while he said, "Did you know I've been to Egypt?"

Her eyebrows raised in surprise. She shook her head.

"Yes, I was there as a tourist during the summer holiday—terribly hot place, I burned horribly." He said this in such a way that she understood it was appropriate to laugh. At the time, it was awful. Sunburns can be. This one blistered and oozed. For goodness' sake, the tops of his ears flaked dead skin!

But it was all in the past now.

"As I recall, I had my pocket picked by a young girl with blue eyes and white hair…"

Now he really had her attention. Ororo shook her head. Granted, she had a distinctive appearance, but, "I'd remember picking the pocket of an Englishman in a wheelchair."

"I wasn't in a wheelchair then."

"Did I really…?"

He nodded. "Well, a girl with blue eyes and white hair."

"There aren't many of us. Not Egyptian, anyway."

Ororo had met other mixed race kids in Cairo, Maasai kids when she lived with them, and in the orphanage she met girls from all over. They had all been various shades of brown—blond girls weren't so tough to place—but none looked anything like her.

Charles looked at the girl. No—not 'girl', not really. Ororo wasn't an adult yet, but she was more woman than girl. He did not have as clear a memory as he'd like of the child who picked his pocket that day in Cairo, but he was quite certain it had been Ororo.

"You took my money and punched me in the kidney," he recalled.

Her eyes lit up. "You caught my wrist!"

He nodded. "Yes."

"No one caught me," she said.

"Telepathy helps."

Ororo laughed. "Good! I feel better knowing that. I had been at it for years and no one caught me when you did. I was so afraid!" It was funny in retrospect. "You held my wrist and I thought, _Achmed will be so mad._ "

"Achmed?"

"He took care of us." Ororo did not talk much of her life before. When she did, it was in broad strokes and always she made the stories hilarious. "Before the Maasai, I lived in… it was a factory before. Me and other beggars and thieves lived there. Achmed was a grown-up. Sort of like a dad, I guess. Not like you are, but it was different. We only had what we took."

"You miss him," Charles observed.

She nodded. "After the factory burned down, I left. I know one boy survived. T'Challa. I was so mad. I wish now…"

After a long moment's silence, he asked, "What do you wish, Ororo?"

"I, um... Professor... since what happened..."

He waited for her to find the words.

Instead she abruptly laid down and pulled the covers over her head. The way her form shook and the sniffling sounds told Charles she was crying. He came as close as he could. It was still an awkward lean to rest a hand on her head.

She tugged at the covers. He took that as a cue and moved back.

When Charles was young, no one was especially affectionate with him. His mother was reserved, his stepfather was an asshole. He was twelve years old when he met Raven and, at twelve, knew to greet another child with a handshake.

So knowing when and how to physically comfort children was something of a learning curve. Charles understood that Scott now trusted him enough to accept contact most of the time, although he did not always know how to react to it. Ororo was more difficult. She was younger physically but older in maturity, not to mention, she was a girl.

And girls were different.

Like aliens.

He was surprised when she reached out, took his hand, and placed it on her head.


	14. Want

The conversation played again and again when he closed his eyes. No matter what Scott tried to focus on for a distraction, when he tried to read and through rounds of sit-ups on the bedroom floor, it didn’t help. Finally he settled in bed in the hopes that his thoughts would dim for a few hours. Still he heard Ruth and Charles's conversation:

_"Scott does not like things to change," Ruth had said._

_"He's spent most of his life in care, he must know this is coming," had been Charles's reply._

_"Charles, this is too much to spring on him at once. He deserves to know. And so does Ororo."_

_"This isn't about Ororo, and until I'm certain—"_

_"This is absolutely about Ororo. She will understand, but she will want to know why she is still your foster-daughter and he is not."_

He sighed and pushed back the covers. Sleep wasn't coming. He told himself he wanted to enjoy his home while he still could, before he was sent away, but it was nonsense. It didn't feel like home anymore. He was already nauseous with the thought of being sent away.

Instead, Scott went and knocked on his brother's door. When no one answered, he pushed it open. The room was an embarrassing mess. Maybe he could get in here next time Alex went to class… at least get some of the laundry and junk food wrappers off the floor. But Alex was there, safe and asleep on top of the covers—Scott added changing the sheets to his list of things to do—and that was what mattered.

Who would take care of Alex when Scott was gone?

He closed the door gently and made his way through the quiet halls. Scott didn't need light to navigate, at this point. He squeezed his eyes shut. He did that, sometimes. Without his glasses he couldn't open them at all, so he liked being able to move without seeing.

He made it to the kitchen. There he was a little clumsier. Finding the cabinet meant running his hands along the wall and he groped at several objects before settling on the one he wanted. He headed to the fridge next. The milk was tricky. Because it came in a glass bottle, he used one hand to hold its weight and the other to guide it carefully onto the counter. He did the same with a drinking glass.

Scott opened his eyes then. He needed them to spoon out just shy of enough Ovaltine, then pour the milk. Finally he took a spoonful of Ovaltine and dunked it into the milk. When he took the spoon out, a thick, dark film of Ovaltine wriggled for a moment, then pulled back, revealing the dry powder beneath it.

Scott grinned and popped the spoon into his mouth.

Eating a spoonful of Ovaltine is trickier and more fun than it sounds. As he stirred the remaining powder into his milk, Scott noticed a mewling sound. He pushed open the kitchen window.

A blur leapt inside.

Scott scooped her up. "Hey, Artie."

The cat gave a _mrrw_ of objection and squirmed, then stopped when he scratched her ribs. Scott balanced Artie and his glass of chocolate milk as he sank to the floor. "Good girl," he murmured.

As she settled, Artie kneaded Scott, jabbing at him with her claws in a strangely friendly gesture. She nuzzled his chin.

"Yeah, I know."

He scratched her ears.

"She'll never forget what you did for her."

Scott looked up to see the Professor in the doorway. Then he looked back to the cat. What he overheard the previous day had been eating at him.

"Nah. It was all Hank, really."

_She will understand, but she will want to know why she is still your foster-daughter and he is not._

It hurt more than Scott knew he could be hurt. And it made him compare himself to Ororo, made him resent her for the first time. She was worlds smarter and better in school and certainly had more fun than he did, but that was okay. That she was an acceptable child and he was not stung. Sure, Ororo was smarter and more interesting, but she fought with Laurie and talked back. Scott didn’t do those things. Not usually. He had fought with Alex a few times, only a few, and sometimes he said things against his better judgment, but he tried. He was diligent with his chores (and Ororo’s) and did his best on his homework…

"I'm glad you're awake," Professor Xavier said, "I've been meaning to speak with you."

Scott nodded. He tightened his grip on Artie, suddenly afraid this would be the last time he held her, the last time he checked in on Alex… how much warning would he have before he had to go?

"Are you all right? Lately you've been—I know the past few weeks have been difficult."

"I'm fine."

"Well—good. In which case, I realize it's two years away, but it's never too early to start thinking about college applications."

Once the shock wore off, Scott almost laughed. _That_ was the important matter? College applications?

"Hank tells me, and my own research supports this, that colleges are trending more toward personal qualities in student admissions. With a school as small as ours, I'm afraid class standing won't be much use to you. Do you know anything about the Scholastic Aptitude Test?"

He really couldn't believe it. College? For a while, Scott had almost thought it might be possible. As much as he struggled, he tried so hard… and now this.

He shook his head.

Misinterpreting the gesture, the Professor continued, "It's a standardized test—you would need to take it in one of the local schools, but that doesn't seem—"

"Stop it."

Although he worked with teenagers, Charles was not accustomed to that tone—particularly not from this teenager. It startled him into silence for a few moments.

"I beg your pardon."

For once, Scott didn't back down. "Just… stop, with the college stuff, okay? We both know that's not happening. We—I heard you. I overheard what you and Ruth were saying yesterday morning. I know."

"Oh." The Professor looked deflated, a touch perplexed. "Scott, I thought—"

"Please just do it and get it over with."

"I thought this was what you wanted."

What he wanted?

Scott had been cold lately, he knew that. He was trying to keep everyone afloat as best he could, but he was mad about what happened and couldn't help but blame Professor Xavier for not even reading Raven's mind. Just one look and Sean would be alive, Alex would be okay, Ororo would be sleeping… yes, Scott knew about that.

He had been cold towards Professor Xavier and he knew that, but he never meant to suggest he didn't want to live here anymore. It was his fault, that was the worst part. He let his anger have the better of him and it was his fault. He should have been better.

A tear splashed onto his finger and Artie's fur. She turned to investigate, sniffed, then licked at Scott's hand.

"Scott, don't… I thought… I never meant for you to find out this way."

He sniffled. "There's no good way to find out something like this."

The Professor's voice sounded young and a little lost as he offered, "I was going to talk to you about it before making any final decisions."

"You've made your decision, though," Scott accused. He refused to be a part of this. He knew he wasn't the brightest and Hank or Charles could talk circles around him, but that was one thing he would not do. He would not assent to being got rid of. "I don't want to stay where I'm not wanted, anyway—"

"Not wanted—"

"—but I won't say I want—"

"Scott." The authority in that tone made him go quiet. "What do you think we're talking about?"

"What you…" Scott paused. He refused to stammer, but he needed a minute to put himself together. "What you told Ruth. That I always knew this was coming, that Ororo would still be your foster-daughter and I…"

Professor Xavier must have been remembering the exact words he used, because he sighed and murmured, "Oh, Scott. If I had known you were listening—of course I don't want to get rid of you."

"You don't?"

"Never."

"But what…?"

"I want to adopt you."

_He's spent most of his life in care, he must know this is coming._

"I've spoken with a lawyer. It's complicated, you're technically a runaway and it's more often young children who are adopted, but there are means to ends. I didn't want to speak with you until it was a sure thing. I worried if I raised your hopes and something went wrong—I only wanted to protect you. Scott, are you crying?"

He shook his head, although he clearly was. Even Artie seemed to notice. Or perhaps she liked the taste of the salt water she licked from his face.

"You don't have to do this. It's an option—it's your choice."

Charles and Scott had a strange reluctance toward refusing one another. That was why Scott had his pet cat, despite Charles's not wanting any animals in the house (teenagers aside). It was why Scott studied algebra, fruitless an endeavor as those studies were—because it mattered to Charles. He hadn't even put up much of a fight over going shopping.

There had been a debate over pajamas once. Charles insisted that Scott needed them. He had outgrown a previous pair and an old t-shirt and boxers were not the same thing. Scott thought it over and asked to be allowed to buy them himself, which seemed fair, particularly after the last shopping trip with Ororo. Charles gave him the money with the requirement that he not buy second-hand pajamas. There had to be limits. Finally, Scott not only agreed to that, but admitted he just didn't want "to look like an absolute tool".

Charles wasn't certain plaid flannel pants really contributed to not looking like an absolute tool—a pun on his name, maybe?—but Scott seemed to like them.

So Scott had pajamas.

And he had an adult library card.

Charles had an admittedly very small algebra class to teach.

Scott had a cat.

And…

"You're crying," Charles observed. "If this isn't what you want—"

"No—I mean, I am." Scott tried to negotiate around Artie to wipe his face. "But not because I'm sad anymore. So… you and Ruth would…"

"Ah. Well. Because Ruth and I are not married—Ruth adores you, but legally, she and I—"

"Okay."

"It's a difficult enough process for a single man. An unmarried couple—even I have only so much influence."

Scott nodded. He hadn't actually thought about that. Though he had never heard of a single parent adopting, only ever heard about couples, he just never considered. He never realized that a single person might want to adopt.

"Scott, you have to understand, I want to adopt you because I love you. Ruth loves you. She'll still be your mom. Alex will still be your brother. The only thing that changes is that no one would be able to take you away."


	15. April 7, 1964

Dear Diary,

It's after midnight, so this counts for tomorrow.

I can't sleep.

I have a secret, which feels strange because usually I have things that aren't secrets, but that I don't talk about. Like things about Africa. I can't tell about it because I don't know the words. Also, the geography. I hate when people say "Africa" like Africa is one place. It's almost 100% surrounded with water, some parts 100% because those parts are islands. I never saw the ocean until I flew over it. (In an airplane.)

The ocean seems mean. Water is everything. I know that from both sides, from having too little and from taking too much. And all that water filled with salt and fish poop. If you were thirsty enough, you would drink the fish poop.

But I never saw the ocean from the ground, because Africa is so big, but I don't know where I was by Western geography. That's a word I don't know. And they don't teach you the words for the geography of your body, either. I had a friend and I think about her a lot. I think about how if it were different, if she had stayed her, I would have stayed there.

I was different there, too, from other people, but that made me feel respected. Here I feel afraid.

I wanted to tell Charles yesterday, but it didn't work. Again, it didn't work, this time because I didn't know how to say it. Even though I did know the words. Maybe Charles was the wrong person to tell.

When they came, his sister and her friends, I was scared. It was the first time I felt scared here. She pretended to be Alex, which was stupid. Scott saw right through that, of course! But Charles wouldn't. He wouldn't even stop her when she had a knife at my throat.

Once, in Africa, something very almost happened to me and I was scared then, too. I think I was 11. Now I am 14, but then I was 11 and I didn't know how to be that scared. It took over me. The first time I used my powers, it happened because I was scared. Ever since, they always responded. Sometimes I did things wrong. I stole too much water. I thought… but I was wrong, and I stole, and people died. Like the first time, only not deserving to.

When Charles's stupid sister had a knife to my throat, my power wouldn't. I tried to call it, but I was too scared. Sometimes it's hard when I am inside. I feel unnatural here, sometimes, so far away from the weather. I never slept behind so many walls and under so many rooves. But it wasn't that. It refused to come because I was scared.

Sometimes now I sit outside and feel the weather. I feel it, I think, more than other people do, more than just the sun on my skin, but I don't try to control it anymore. I don't do that because I am a coward. I am afraid that I will try again and the weather won't come.

Like I may as well try to rescue the moon from the pond at night.


	16. 1:43 a.m.

Science can be a troublingly slow endeavor. That was something so few people understood. Hank had cultures growing and there was simply no purpose in continuing his research until he observed the cell growth rates with the recent exposures. He truly believed he was coming close… but there were long-term factors to consider, and 'coming close' in biology wasn't the same as 'coming close' to solving one's algebra homework.

So although Hank was in the lab, he was there upside down with _Return of the King_ open in his left foot. A soft rain fell outside, which was delightfully atmospheric.

He enjoyed these late nights. As much as Hank liked Charles, Ruth, and the students, sometimes they were terribly stressful to be around. He liked his calm, quiet lab. There were questions here, but they were questions with simple answers. (They were complex scientific questions with answers that were simple to Hank.)

Yes, a nice, relaxing—Hank shook back fur to check his watch—1:43a.m. was so very called for.

"Hank!"

_Nice, relaxing…_

He closed the book. "Yes, Scott?"

Something was wrong, but Hank had learned to take that information with a considerable grain of salt. He had learned to take that information with a salt lick to cross the desert (barring of course Ororo, who needed only her powers and not a camel). Scott had a habit of seeing everything as both his fault and catastrophic. He had nearly hyperventilated over breaking a dish once—but that _was_ several years ago.

Nevertheless, as Hank somersaulted to the ground, he noted that Scott looked particularly distressed. He also looked particularly ready for bed with his messy hair and pajamas, but that was beside the point.

"Alex is missing," Scott blurted.

"Alex is an adult," Hank reasoned.

"No, he—okay, yes, but—Hank, please. He's not in his room and he never leaves."

"He probably went to the bathroom, or to break into the wine cellar."

"I waited—wine cellar?"

"Professor Xavier tries to block the knowledge of it from your minds—you, the other kids, and Alex—but yeah. There's a wine cellar." Hank never called Charles that to his face, but talking to a student was like talking to a two-year-old sometimes, the way a toddler genuinely believes there are people in the world named Mommy and Daddy.

"Where is it?"

Hank fiddled with his glasses nervously. He never should have said anything. "You're not supposed to know—"

Scott interrupted. If Hank had doubted Scott's seriousness before, he was certain now. "Where, Hank?"

He sighed. "An outbuilding, maybe a quarter of a mile back, uphill if you take the gate from the courtyard—" He stopped abruptly. "Come on. You'll never find it on your own." After all, no one else had—besides Alex, and Hank was certain that was because he already knew where it was.

Raven showed him.

Hank pulled on a pair of rainboots that miraculously fit him. Even before his bluification, his feet were not made for average shoes. Loafers had been bearable, tennis shoes excruciating.

"Don't you want to put on your shoes?"

Scott shook his head.

Hank wasn't going to push him. At least the kid wouldn't be wandering alone through the albeit mild rain.

Negotiating the terrain was surprisingly difficult at night and, thanks to the rain, they didn't have the moon or stars for light. Hank thought belatedly that he should have brought a flashlight, but he didn't go back. He didn't think Scott could handle that.

The wine cellar door was old-fashioned, thick wood and black iron with almost ornamental studs. It was set into walls of uneven stone. It was crude, built so far back either because the temperatures were right here in the shade or because, although stylistic, it was somewhat unsightly. Imperfect.

"Could he be inside?"

Hank shook his head. "It's padlocked," he pointed out. The lock was rusted. It hadn’t been opened for a while. Logically, there was no way for Alex to get inside and padlock the door. Besides, ever since Charles's period of less-than-responsible drinking, the only person with the key was Hank. "He's not here, Scott."

"Let's—let's go look for him!" Scott suggested.

"Alex is an adult," Hank replied. The rain was light, but still saturating his fur and starting to weigh it down. "He makes his own choices."

"But they're bad choices. He's—he's sad, he's not thinking—please, Hank. Please, you're the only person I can ask."

Hank slumped his shoulders. It was true that Scott's options were limited. Only Ruth and Hank could drive and the chances of Ruth agreeing to this were slim. If anything, she would have him back in bed in under four minutes—Ruth did tend to get what she wanted with the kids. But when he worried about someone, Scott could be like a dog with a bone. Ruth could talk him back to bed but not keep him there, and Hank wouldn’t be surprised if Scott walked into town.

Still: "I just… not like this."

"Please. You don't have to get out of the car, and you can park in the shadows and I'll go look."

This was a tremendously bad idea and the worst part was that Hank knew it. Nevertheless… Scott had done a lot for him. Just by seeing him for himself and not as a monster, even when that hadn't been easy, Scott had done a lot. Yes, he also asked for a lot. He needed guidance and advice and someone to listen to him, even when Hank felt way out of his depth. But he tried so hard.

Hank sighed.

He didn't have to say anything.

And the next thing he knew he was pulling into the far end of the Circle K parking lot. "You sure he'd come here?"

Scott nodded. He didn't look sure of anything. He was a disheveled kid with the questionable outfit of plaid pajama pants and a black t-shirt, damp from the rain, mud drying on his bare feet. Nonetheless, he stepped out of the car and started toward the brightly lit convenience store.

Hank sat in the car, growing increasingly aware that this was a bad idea. He was a Harvard graduate. How had he been so stupid as to think it was a good idea to send a shivering teenager to places a drunk might go in the middle of the night?

As he waited for Scott to return, he practiced what he would say. They needed to go home. They would talk to the Professor, call the police if he thought that was a good idea… but, no, Scott, would see through that. He would know that Charles couldn't possibly want to call the cops over a man in his twenties who had been missing for two hours.

Scott returned alone and dropped into the passenger seat. "I think the next place—"

"There's no 'next place'," Hank interrupted. "This has gone on long enough. Alex is old enough to make his own choices and—"

"No, he isn't! He's still a kid, why doesn't anyone see that?"

"Because he's not a kid. He's a man who acts like a kid. And I can't keep letting an actual kid look for drunks at two in the morning."

Scott glared for a moment. Hank saw him flinch. He could guess why: Scott told him once that the memories were worst in the nighttime. They always had been. When Scott first arrived, he had nightmares he wouldn't talk about. They had quieted now, but things like that did not simply disappear.

Then, eerily calmly, he said, "Okay."

And he stepped out of the car.

"Wait."

He didn't.

Hank swore. He didn't, usually, but the occasion called for it—because the situation had gotten somehow worse. Worse than sending a kid to look for a drunk in the rain and that belonged in the dreariest of French films.

He drove slowly, keeping pace with Scott, and rolled down the window.

"Scott, get back in the car."

Scott's only response was to walk quicker. It didn't make a difference, of course: he couldn't outpace a car.

"We'll keep looking for Alex."

No answer.

"You made your point."

Hank continued following him, somewhat unnerved by the fact that a car could trail a kid on a dim street and no one said anything. He'd seen PSAs that began this way and they didn't end well for the kid. Of course Hank would never hurt Scott, but who knew that?

After a few blocks, Scott headed past a vomiting drunk and into a bar that Hank wouldn't want to enter wearing a hazmat suit, let alone barefoot.

Scott got into the car after that.

"Ready to head home?"

Scott shook his head. "I promised my dad," he explained. "I have to find him."

Well, that explained a lot. Scott would walk through fire if Charles even hinted he might consider it a potential good idea. That loyalty was something Charles would never misuse. It probably wasn’t something he had ever wanted.

Hank could not help remembering the day Sean refused to jump off the satellite dish, the look on Erik’s face: _you know you were thinking the same_. But even if he had been, Charles wouldn’t have acted on it. He wouldn’t have pushed Sean off the dish and certainly wouldn’t want his student in this sort of situation.

Hank admitted, "I'm the last person to give advice on not taking things too literally, but if Professor Xavier asked you to help your brother, he never meant—"

"Hank?” Scott interrupted. “My, um, my other dad."

Hank was quiet for a moment. Then, "Okay. Where else can we look?"

"I only know two more bars." He gave an address.

Hank headed for it, although he had to ask, "How do you know about bars?"

"Sometimes I ride my bike around. It helps me think."

Hank accepted that. "If this doesn't work out—Alex can take care of himself."

"Maybe he can, but he doesn't," Scott retorted, which was difficult to argue with.

Hank parked outside the next bar. He hoped Alex was there, for Scott's sake if not Alex's. In a way, Hank resented what a child Alex had been about this. Sean was gone for all of them. What had happened, it resonated through all of them, it hurt everyone.

Alex didn't try to survive this. He let it crush him.

The back door opened and Scott poured his brother into the car. He leaned across Alex to buckle the seatbelt. Alex said something, but it was incomprehensible. Scott rolled down the window before he shut the door.

"Fresh air should sober you up. And if you need to puke, do it out the window."

He then dropped himself in the front seat.

"Thank you."

"Yeah," Hank said. He couldn't say it had been nothing. It hadn't and they both knew it.

They drove in silence for a while. The rain continued. It didn't seem like enough to soak someone, but there was Scott dripping onto the floor mats. Hank sighed and turned on the heater. Scott leaned close to it, understanding that the open window behind him would make the heater's job tough.

Alex took his big brother's advice and puked out the window.

"You talk to Professor Xavier yet?" Hank asked.

Scott seemed to shrink in his seat. "Remember when you said I'd be embarrassed?"

"Yes."

"I'm embarrassed."

He wasn't sure how to talk about this with Alex. Luckily, Alex had his head out the window like a happy dog or a sick drunk.

"Hank, he wants to adopt me."

Hank took his eyes off the road for a second. He looked from the road to Scott. And again.

"And… is that what you want?"

"I don't know. I mean—yes—he's been like a father to me. But…" Scott glanced toward the backseat to indicate his brother.

"You told me a little while after you arrived that you didn't want anything more than you wanted a forever family."

"Yeah, but… I’m his forever family."

Alex sighed heavily as he slumped back on the seat.

"Hank, why do you hate Alex so much?"

"'Cause he's a Beast," Alex groaned.

Scott sighed. Alex wasn't helping by talking like that.

"Never mind." He had his answer.

Again, they were silent for a time. Alex's head dropped forward, his chin resting on his chest. Maybe all that booze had knocked him out. At least he wasn't being rude or violent, which often couldn't be said for him.

"What do you suppose will happen when school starts up again?" Hank asked softly.

"You mean if he goes through with it?" Scott asked, assuming Hank meant the adoption.

Hank nodded.

"I guess, for school—"

"Screw school!" Alex piped up from the backseat. "Glad I didn't go back…"

Scott sighed. "Please, Hank." He couldn't handle the arguments now. And it was unfair. He had pulled Hank out of the lab in the middle of the night to find his drunken lout of a brother. Alex had taken a swing at him when Scott found him in the bar. Of course, he was so soused it didn't take months of krav maga training to duck out of the way.

It was just too much.

But Hank was a good friend. He didn't push back. He drove the rest of the way home in silence, only commenting as he parked, "Scott."

"Yeah?"

Hank hesitated a moment. "Neep."

They both laughed—tired and wrung out, but they laughed.

"Are you okay?" Hank asked.

Scott nodded. "I'll clean up everything."

Hank started to go, then paused. "You're a good brother, Scott."

"Yeah!" Alex groaned loudly. "Good bro."

Then he threw up again.

Scott shook his head. He had to unbuckle the seatbelt, Alex didn't seem up to doing that for himself. He was mostly dead weight as Scott hauled him back to his bedroom. Briefly, he thought that he should have been more cool-headed. He should have changed the sheets and taken out the trash and laundry while Alex was gone.

He settled for dumping Alex onto the bed as gently as possible. He raided Alex's drawer for a pair of socks to pull over his muddy feet, then brought a clean sheet to tuck over Alex, as well as a mixing bowl from the kitchen.

"Alex?"

Alex groaned.

"Alex." Scott shook his shoulder. "Try to puke in the bowl, okay?"

Alex squinted. He pushed Scott's hair back and tried to take his glasses.

"Hey—don't. Alex, don't."

"You look like Dad."

Scott couldn't help but think that Alex wouldn't know. Alex didn't remember their dad.

 _And whose fault is that?_ asked the vicious voice in his head. _No father would stay for a pathetic son like you._

Scott blinked rapidly, suddenly grateful his glasses hid his eyes. He wasn't crying, not for the second time in one night. He was just tired.

He wanted to take out the trash, but it had so many empty liquor bottles in it and Scott wasn't sure how to hide them. He settled for dragging Alex's laundry basket to his room; he would wash everything tomorrow.

Meanwhile, Scott had his own muddy footprints to scrub from the floor. Then he scrubbed the vomit from the car door and the inside of the car, then the mud he had tracked into the car…

By the time he was finished, his knees and shoulders ached. The rain dampness had dried from his shirt and been replaced with sweat marks. He was so tired the backseat of the car looked appealing. He could just lie down there and… but no. No, he had been specifically asked not to sleep in the garage.

Scott shuffled back to his bedroom.

He didn't want to—he wanted to go to Ororo's bedroom. That had never seemed acceptable, though. She came into his room sometimes, but he didn't feel comfortable doing the same.

Still, his bed looked delightfully soft and welcoming, and he had just pulled back the covers when he heard a mewl from outside.

Scott pushed open the window. "Artie!" The cat leapt inside, slightly less worse for wear than Scott himself. "Sorry about this, girl." He reached for one of Alex's dirty t-shirts to dry her and flinched when he realized he had grabbed boxers instead. Cleaning someone's vomit was one thing, but that… he shivered and reached more carefully, this time picking up an actual t-shirt.

He used it to towel the cat dry-ish. When he settled into bed, he brought Artie with him. Scott spent a few seconds lying there, feeling every ache in his body. Then the aches and consciousness melted away.

The first thing he noticed when he woke up was the cat asleep against him.


	17. Tea

Once, the Xavier place was almost always quiet. It was home to reserved people living reserved lives and when they broke that reserve it was chaos. There was shouting, drinking, the breaking of things… better overall that it should be quiet, then, with those three unhappy people living their three unhappy lives. Charles, his mother, his stepfather, all wrapped up in misery.

It was quite the opposite now. The kids were supposed to be exuberant, usually were, and seeing both of them so sedate was unnervingly like seeing the house as it had been all those years ago. But usually they were so overtly alive, as was Alex, and the occasional bursts of enthusiasm with which Hank left the lab…

Charles woke alone again. He sighed and reached for the other half of the bed just to confirm, but he knew. He couldn't feel her nearby, physically or psychically.

He went through the motions of the morning. He dressed, brushed his teeth, combed his hair. As he did, he scanned the other minds in the house. Ororo and Scott were together. Ruth, outside, was churning up the ground—she had decided to start a garden. Hank was fast asleep and Alex—Charles rubbed his head. Just touching Alex's mind brought him much too close to a mountain of a hangover.

As he headed toward the kitchen, Charles debated asking Scott about his homework. Officially, Hank was responsible for Scott's spring break assignment, and Charles could give a dozen science metaphors about things flourishing when left alone… but Scott's studies had a nasty habit of not flourishing.

Ororo he did not worry about. Her reading and writing was often lacking, but she was a dangerously clever young woman with a habit of scraping by in subjects where she couldn't be bothered with a decent effort. When she even half-tried… Charles sighed. A brilliant student could be just as frustrating as a struggling one sometimes!

At first, wrapped up in thoughts about the kids, he did not realize he heard their voices.

Charles paused. Overheard conversations could lead to such pain. He had just seen how Scott suffered for misunderstanding a conversation between Charles and Ruth. Nevertheless, he had heard this one before:

"Am I pretty?"

"Pretty?"

"Would you date me?" Ororo asked, and Charles recalled the same question. On the last night of his life, the last night before everything changed, Raven asked the same.

She tested him and he failed.

"You're my sister," Scott replied. "And you're fourteen."

“I’m almost fifteen. You were fifteen last year.”

“You were thirteen two days ago. You’re too young to date.”

They were not, as Charles initially guessed, sitting at the table. Both preferred the kitchen table to the more impressive dining room table. Today they were underneath it, their blanket fort still intact. Ororo's legs stuck out beneath a floral bedsheet, visible from her scabbed knees to her bare toes.

"All right, but if I wasn't fourteen and your sister, would you look at me?"

"I'm supposed to beat up guys who look at you."

"Don't do that—and if you weren't. If I was sixteen and we went to school together somewhere else, would you ask me out?"

"No," Scott replied, and Charles swallowed a sigh. That was not the right answer and he knew it, and he saw this playing out as it had with him and Raven, and then—"I’d never have the confidence. You would have to ask me. But if you did, I would go with you."

"Because?"

"Because you are beautiful. But as your brother…"

She must have shoved him, because they both started laughing.

Thinking about Scott in terms of insufficiencies was very easy. After all, he was an orphan, an often less than exceptional student, a boy who couldn't do more than he could. But, Charles thought, Scott was an exceptional brother. Charles hadn't been able to see Raven as beautiful, couldn't see past that her exceptional appearance marked her as _family_.

And, a tiny part of his mind acknowledged, he had simply not found her appearance pleasing. That was true, too.

Stepping heavily in a wheelchair is, of course, impossible, so Charles bumped into the doorjamb to announce his presence. He went about making his tea as Ororo and Scott scrambled out from beneath the table. Good mornings were traded and various looks passed between Scott and Ororo—an entire conversation which Charles chose to leave between them.

Scott grabbed what passed for breakfast, looking properly ashamed at the look Charles gave him as he dropped Pop Tarts in the toaster.

"If you have Coke with those, you're grounded," Charles told him.

Ororo cackled.

"Wha—since when?"

"Since right now."

"I was going to have milk anyway."

"Of course you were."

Ororo, who had an even stronger objection to Pop-Tarts than she had to peanut butter (which was an abomination against nature and all things rational and good in the world), grabbed a soda. They were not biological siblings, of course, but siblings enough that she had perfected the art of simultaneously drinking and giving Scott an 'I have some you cannot' look.

"You don't even like that stuff," Scott said.

Ororo shrugged. Liking it wasn't the point. Having something he didn't was the point. "Mom said I should help her," she commented. Charles pretended to ignore another unspoken conversation, this one ending with a sharp-eyed warning look from Ororo.

The toaster dinged. Scott grabbed what Charles refused to consider food and took a seat at the table. He kept glancing at Charles, whose tea was brewing.

"Professor?"

"In a moment, Scott."

His eyes were smudged beneath his glasses and something was clearly bothering him. Their last conversation had been taxing and Charles just knew this would be the same.

"I wanted to—"

"This will only take another minute. Be patient."

Once the tea had been brewed and poured, Charles settled at the table, ignoring the sheets. He was perhaps a bit reckless in how long he let the leaves steep, but Scott was radiating tension.

Charles took a sip—yes, another thirty seconds would have been beneficial here—then prompted, "Now. What was it you wanted to tell me?"

"I, um… something happened last night and—" he began, his gaze clearly on the table. He had tilted his head forward just so, trying to hide his face behind too-short hair. It was getting long again, but not enough to hide behind.

"Look at me."

Scott raised his head. He looked back at the table, shook his head, took a breath, and finally he was able to look at Charles and say, "First, it's my fault. Not—not all of it, but some of it—most of it—it was my idea. And I know I'm going to be grounded but there's one thing I have to do first. Then you can ground me forever."

Charles considered reading Scott's mind and decided against it. He did not care for the mannerisms he was seeing now. They were the same behaviors he saw when Scott first arrived. Scott was working through them and Charles gave him the space to do that.

"I… last night," Scott explained, "me and Hank—Alex wasn't home. Hank took me into town to look for him, but only because I was going anyway."

Charles waited, but no more details were offered. "And?"

"And I wanted you to hear it from me."

"I see."

All things considered, Charles supposed, this was not nearly so bad as he had feared. He was surprised to hear that Hank left the grounds and concerned that Alex was spiraling out of control. Alex had a wild streak from the moment Charles met him, but this…

"Where did you find your brother?"

"He, um…" Scott began, then lowered his head.

"Scott?"

For someone who insisted he needed his tea, Charles was not overly interested in drinking it now. Instead he watched Scott, waiting for an answer.

"He'd been drinking. I found him at a bar and we brought him home."

"Hank took you to a bar."

"He didn't want to."

"Hank is an adult, you're a child."

"He decided to take me home," Scott said. "That was what Hank wanted. So I got out of the car and started walking, because I wouldn't go home without Alex. Professor, Alex is struggling. Ororo, too. I promised I wouldn't say too much, but I can't—I want to help them, but there's only so much I can do."

Charles nodded. His composure slipped, just a little, his expression betraying not only that he knew but that it weighed on him. "I know."

"Then why aren't you doing anything?"

"I am."

"You're not! Alex—"

"Alex is an adult. I'll speak with him, but…" Charles shook his head. "Loving someone doesn't give you the right to make their choices for them. I've tried to do that and all it does is push away the people you love." Saying he loved Alex might be something of an exaggeration, but this was not wholly about Alex anymore.

Charles did not mention Ororo, but it didn't mean she was any less important. She was less destructive, her needs less pressing, but he knew she was struggling, too. That was why he made a point to spend time with her.

Scott was quiet for a moment and Charles finally did take the time to sip his tea. It wasn't even cold.

"Professor?"

"Yes."

Honestly, no one in this place understood a nice cup of tea. He was going to make it a rule. There would be a rule that no one was to interrupt Charles's nice cup of tea unless there was a fire.

"Aren't you going to punish me?"

Right. He had forgotten who he was talking to.

"Consequences, Scott,” Charles replied mildly. “Actions have consequences."

"That's not a verb."

"True. Two weeks washing dishes."

"That's fair."

Coming from Scott, that meant nothing. He would have deemed thumbscrews fair. Charles decided this was not something worth saying. Instead, he said, "Whatever it is you feel you need to do today, don't be rash. Think it through."

Scott nodded. He was not one to lose his temper, but too often he got an idea into his head and rather than think it through, he acted on foolish assumptions. Charles would never forget the time he packed his things on the assumption he would be made to leave for swearing at Alex. For all Charles tried to teach Scott what the world actually was, his understanding was deeply flawed.

"All right then."

Scott swallowed the last of his Pop-Tart, drained his glass and deposited it in the sink, then headed for the door. Finally, Charles was alone to enjoy his still-warm tea!

"Hank told you, didn't he?"

…not so alone.

He looked up and realized Scott wasn't asking.

"And had you not done so as well, it would have been a month washing dishes."


	18. Look

When she woke up, the first thing Ororo knew the day would be warm. Pleasant. She always knew the weather when she woke up, before she even opened her eyes.

She knew that, and she had acclimated.

She was feeling so distant lately, far from herself. It was the first time she questioned her powers and being away from her powers was like not knowing who she was. So she had camped out on the floor like in the old factory back in Cairo.

All she could think about was how alone she had felt then. She forgot before how different she was even in back home, like everyone else had someone. The other girls were close. Two of the boys were brothers, the others friends—and there was Ororo, trying to prove herself one of the boys but never truly one.

She had gone to Scott's bedroom, but he wasn't there and she was set to Goldilocks him, but she didn't like his bed any more than hers. She was looking for Scott, not a place to sleep. So she went back and laid down on the floor like she used to when she was a little girl.

It was just the way things were when she was young. Now she woke up sore and painfully aware of it.

Ororo sighed. She pushed herself off the floor, dropped the covers back on the bed, and pulled something out of her drawer. Why were clothes so confusing here? She had more than enough of them, and there were skirts and pants and she had no real preference for either since everyone had seen that she could still hold her own against Scott or Alex in krav maga.

Finally she pulled a pair of plaid shorts on under Doug's band t-shirt. Doug was tall, broad, and chubby, probably three times Ororo's size, and the shorts were small enough that only a few centimeters were visible under the baggy t-shirt. She looked like she was wearing her pajamas—which, she supposed, she was. Plus shorts.

She found Ruth outside, perched on the steps, and settled beside her.

Ruth wrapped an arm around Ororo's shoulders. Ororo leaned into her.

"Ready to talk about it?" Ruth asked. She was the only person in this country who spoke to Ororo in Arabic and although they usually used English, Ororo appreciated it.

Still, she shook her head. "What were you like when you were fourteen?"

Ruth thought about that for a moment. "I was… impossible," she said, making both of them laugh. "I was a little wild. On the kibbutz, we did not have, it is not as a family. I lived with the other children."

"Like I do?"

"No, you have a blended family. You have me and Professor Xavier and Scott. Parents and brother. Very normal."

"I don't look like you."

Ororo meant that about all of them. It was true that Ruth, Charles, and Scott had different shades of fair skin, different sorts of brown hair, but if you saw them together you could think they were real family. Ororo looked different.

"True, but you sound like me."

"Scott could've come out of you."

"So could you," Ruth retorted.

Ororo couldn't argue with that. With her mixed heritage, even though it had been her biological father who was white, she could plausibly have been Ruth's daughter. She just wouldn't have looked like it.

"How come you and Laurie don't have hair on your legs?" Ororo asked instead. "Is that—women in Africa have hair." As did she, in fact, and having a faint sprinkling of white was not making her questions of identity any easier solved.

"All women have this," Ruth replied. "Some shave. For me, I have strong hair, so not so often. Laurie probably more."

"Strong _hair?_ "

"Mhm. It is part of my power, I am less destructible, so my hairbrush breaks easily, my razors wear out. It would be different for you if you if this is what you want to do."

Ororo didn't answer at first. She looked up at the sky, then out, and realized she couldn't see the wall. She knew it was there, marking the perimeter of where Charles Xavier's word was law. That was preferable, his word being law. Otherwise it was someone else's, and why should she trust them?

The world felt good—quite literally. The weather was like a physical sensation to Ororo. Rainstorms were intense but a light rain felt strange, like the restrained activity in no way natural to a fourteen-year-old girl. Today the weather felt quiet and calm, settled.

"Why?" she wondered. "I didn't like when my body got…" She waved her hands in the air, vaguely indicating the shape of a much more curvaceous woman than herself. "But it was like when I tried to stop the rain. When I came here, to New York, I tried for a month and I didn't let the rain come, but I felt sick. Like the whole world was sick. I had to let it rain. Like I had to move a little differently and my body worked fine, even with the," and again she made the shape of a very curvy woman. "Nature is nature. Me, you, the air… the clouds…"

She brushed her fingers across the hair on her leg. It didn't feel wrong.

"Being a woman is very difficult, Ororo."

Ororo nodded. She had figured that out.

"You'll be great."

She wanted to say something to that, something that told her that the praise made her feel warm all over, but before she could think of what to say, her stomach growled. It was the morning. Pre-breakfast.

"Go have something to eat," Ruth suggested. "Want to work with me later? I am starting a garden. It will be boring today, but—"

"I want to," Ororo interrupted.

"Good. Now go eat."

She nodded and headed inside.

It was the sort of day on which none of the lights had been switched on. Why would they? There was plenty streaming through the windows, not like those drab, short winter days she had not even dreamed could exist before coming to New York.

How could you have a whole season with barely any sunshine?

* * *

 

Later, after talking to Scott in a blanket fort they could barely fit into together, Ororo headed outside again to find Ruth. She was kneeling on the ground, pulling weeds with what looked like a very delicate touch.

"Couldn't you yank them out?" Ororo asked, thinking about Ruth's strength.

Ruth nodded. "I could. Sometimes it will work, but mostly they will break. They are more delicate above the ground."

Ororo knelt nearby and gripped a weed. She pulled as hard as she could. Part of the weed tore free… of the ground. A little bit of stem remained aboveground and she knew there would be plenty of roots, too. She huffed.

"Try like this," Ruth said. She reached for another weed and gripped the stem close to the ground. She tugged at the stem, wriggling rather than straight up, and out came an entire weed and root system.

Ororo tried. She had to admit—but not out loud—that it was easier to get the weeds out that way.

"It's messy today," she observed. This was not a complaint, simply an observation. Mud, Ororo had to admit, was _fun_.

"You should see when it is dry!" Ruth said. "This is worse, the ground holds on tighter. No, wait—"

Too late. Ororo had gripped another weed. This one sent sharp prickles through her hand. She flinched back, but too late. The nettle had done its work. Ororo gritted her teeth and breathed, trying to focus on the air.

"Here."

Ruth scooped up a handful of mud and dropped it into Ororo's palm, then spread the mud over her fingers. It was cool and surprisingly calming.

"And there is that."

Ororo giggled.

She didn't know why she loved the mud. She just did. It was squishy and messy and somehow absolutely delightful.

They pulled weeds for what felt like a year and a half. It was certainly long enough for the task to become less fun and more competitive, which made it messier… which made it more fun again. After a time, Ororo did begin to feel sore, though. She was glad when Ruth called a halt.

"I think we have enough space now," she said. "I am going to wash up and go to the nursery. You are welcome to come."

“Nursery?”

“Where they sell plants.”

Ororo hesitated. She did not leave the grounds often and a large part of that was the way other people reacted to her. Ruth could say all she wanted that Ororo could have been her biological daughter, no one would see that and they would stare.

A series of obscenities flashed through Ororo's mind.

"I'll go."

She tried to be rebellious about it by only washing the mud off her hands and legs, leaving her mud-spattered t-shirt, and was a little disappointed when she saw that Ruth had done the same thing. They were only going to buy plants, after all.

Growing up in Egypt, Ororo had heard plenty of jokes about Israeli drivers. She didn't know if it was true of all Israelis, only that Ruth's driving actually made her appreciate seat belts.

The town was new to her in some ways. When they paused at red lights, Ororo looked around. She spotted the drug store where Alex worked, although not the library—that was down the road a ways. Most of it would have been boring to some people, but this was Ororo's first experience living in an American town. She was starting to wish she spent more time actually in it.

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"Do we live in the town? Technically in it?"

"Not technically," Ruth said.

"Hey, that looks like Alex's car!"

Ruth looked. "It is."

"Oh—oh!" Ororo realized where they were. "Isn't it early to be drinking?" The car was parked in a bar parking lot.

"Alex is at home. Maybe he was here yesterday or the day before and did not drive home."

The nursery was a surprising place, between a pizzeria and a dry cleaner's. Both of those seemed a bit ill-matched to plants, Ororo thought, but she recognized the name of the pizza place. Maybe that was why their basil was so fresh.

Ororo did not want to admit how much she enjoyed wandering around the nursery, looking at the plants and touching flowers' waxy petals. They were… beautiful. There were bursts of color she had never seen growing in this country, purple so deep it was nearly black and orange so sudden it demanded attention.

There was a stack of herb shelves, too. She sniffed those, inhaling the strong central scent of a specific herb along with the hints of earth and nearby plants.

"Looking for anything in particular?"

She looked up from deep green mint leaves. The fellow working in the nursery looked very fond of today's fashions. His tie-dyed t-shirt, fraying jeans, and long hair spoke to that.

"Um…"

"'Cause if it's parsley, that's around the other side. Curly and flat."

"Oh."

There were two sorts of parsley?

"I was just browsing," Ororo said, using a word she had read earlier that week. She liked it: _browsing_. The sounds were distinct, making it a long, slow sort of word.

The man nodded. "Right on," he said, and headed off to shift a stack of pots.

Ororo headed off the find Ruth. "Did you find what you needed?" she asked.

"I did. Did you find anything you would like to grow?"

She hadn't realized that was an option. "Can I have just one minute?"

Ruth nodded. "Take your time."

Ororo darted back to the herbs. Ruth, meanwhile, paid for the plants she had chosen. She had just finished settling them in the trunk of the car when Ororo ran up, carrying basil in a plastic pot. "Can I have this one?"

Ruth took a look. "Good choice. If we plant it outside, it will grow for a year. We can keep this in the kitchen, by the window, possibly it will live longer. What do you want to do?"

"In the kitchen."

So five minutes later Ororo was sitting in the front seat, a potted plant cradled in her lap, hoping the seatbelt would protect them both from Ruth’s lead feet.


	19. Ruinous

Scott did not manage to undertake his errand that first day, nor the next. Bringing Alex home had been a good first step. While his brother whimpered and puked his way through a hangover, Scott tidied up Alex's room. He did it as quietly as possible, though the junk food wrappers crinkled when he gathered the trash and the booze bottles clacked.

He had a trash can full of empty beer bottles—and some harder stuff—when he encountered Professor Xavier in the hallway. Scott looked from the alcohol bottles, to the Professor, to the floor. He didn't try to defend what he had.

"He's sick, Scott."

"He just—he's sad. Sean, he…"

Professor Xavier shook his head. "Alex and Sean were very important to me and the significance of what's happened is not lost, but your brother is more than sad."

"Please, just let him get better physically."

 _You let Raven get away with a lot more,_ Scott thought. Professor Xavier had struggled to defend Raven to the very last, like pulling teeth, up to the moment Raven threatened Ororo. Yes, Alex’s drinking was a problem, his behavior needed to change, but he never meant to hurt anybody. The same could not be said of Raven.

Scott wouldn't have said it out loud. He saw that Professor Xavier heard him, though—and was hurt.

_Fascinating how your mere nearness seems ruinous. How everything you touch is destroyed._

He flinched. The words were familiar, Mr. Milbury's voice from the foundlings' home, and even though Scott didn't remember the day the words were said he knew they were true. Professor Xavier was the last person he wanted to hurt, but he had.

_Worthless—_

"Scott."

He shook his head. "Um—can we talk later, please? The smell of this stuff makes me sick."

"Of course."

So Scott took out the bottles and went back to Alex's room to dust and sweep. It wouldn't have been so terrible if Alex just slept and moaned, but the farting was beginning to feel like a personal attack and Scott hadn't known a person could scratch himself that often and not draw blood.

At least he didn't wake up often.

* * *

 

The following day Alex's room was clean and Scott had slept through the night with no drunks to chase after. He felt a little guilty about the resentment, but it didn't stop him spending half an hour in bed, wide awake and playing with Artie. Only when the cat lost interest did Scott get up.

He knew he owed an explanation and so, after leaving toast and water in Alex's room, Scott went to the Professor's study. Sounds were muffled by the closed door but this was clearly a phone call. Scott waited in the hall until the silence lasted 75 seconds—the call was definitely over. The he knocked.

"Come in, Scott."

 _Telepathy is weird,_ he thought—and realized that had probably been overheard also.

The response: _It is a bit, isn't it? Do come in._

So he did.

Scott had no idea what Professor Xavier did all day. Obviously he did something, but Scott couldn't guess what.

"This one time," he began, "we were talking about… what are you afraid of? Laurie said spiders. And those robots, the ones that attacked us. She was really scared of those. Doug said clowns—and robots—and Ororo said… I can't remember now. She said something about pigeons, but she was making that up. I said the dark."

"I didn't know you were afraid of the dark."

"I'm not afraid of the dark. I lied, too. I'm afraid of Mr. Milbury. Sometimes, in the dark, I get stupid. If I can't see that he's not there, I don't believe he isn't… I know he isn't but…" Scott shrugged. It was difficult to explain: fear did not make sense. "Before I came here, I wasn't afraid of him because there was no alternative. I knew no one would ever adopt me, but I think, even more—even more than Mr. Milbury, I was afraid of wanting to be. It would never happen, so wanting it would just, it would hurt.

"I was afraid to see it, but that was what I wanted: for someone to want me. Keep me. They didn't have to be nice or… or love me or anything. And I'm—I wanted to say this now because you should know that what we talked about the other day, it meant a lot. Everything. I know it seems like I just forgot, I didn't forget."

While he talked, Scott had looked down, watched the edge of the desk. Even though his glasses prevented anyone from looking into his eyes, he felt that he made eye contact with others. He looked into their eyes when he spoke with them. It was only polite.

He looked up now, tense with nerves, and was surprised to see the Professor staring at him. He had a look on his face like this had genuinely hurt him.

Suddenly he shook himself, wiped his eyes, and shuffled through papers on his desk like they weren't wholly organized. "Ah—well—I understand that what happened with Alex was outside your control, of course I understand that. When he's past his… illness—which is his own fault, by the way—you need to let me handle this. I appreciate your loyalty and Alex is lucky to have you as a brother, but the other night showed just how far this has gone and it's unacceptable. Now, I don't blame anyone, but it's time I intervened."

Scott nodded. He could accept that. Someone needed to help Alex and, the truth was, Scott was out of his depth. He could clean his brother's room and do his laundry, something he hoped would make Alex feel better about his surroundings, but he didn't know how to make him stop hurting.

Sean was still dead.

"I also took his booze," he admitted.

"What did you do with it?"

Scott hesitated to answer that one.

"Hank or Ruth?"

"Hank."

Charles nodded. "Good choice. You're doing very well, Scott. There's not many people who would do what you have for Alex."

The statement embarrassed Scott, who hadn't been given any praise for most of his life and still didn’t know how to respond to it. He bowed his head like he could hide from that awkward uncomfortable feeling. Pride really did require adjusting to.

"Over the past months, I've noticed an increasing willingness on your part to take responsibility for those around you. Your peers have noticed it, too, if not in so many words. They trust you. They're loyal to you."

Scott made a non-committal noise, not seeing where this was leading.

"I want you to understand that your consideration for others and generally sound judgment in a crisis are exceptional qualities. I'm proud of the way you've handled yourself. Day to day, you're still learning. That's why you're going to step aside. It's not a failing on your part."

Scott nodded slowly. "If that's the best thing for Alex."

"You know, as your father, I really should be taking care of you, too. Not just your brother." It was a truly meant but playfully stated observation. Charles had been effectively Scott's father for nearly two years and the actual adoption process was only a formality. It still felt strange to acknowledge what had, before, been a tacit understanding.

"I'm not sure I know how to do that," Scott admitted.

"No… neither do I. But we'll sort it out."


	20. Hangover

World tilting.

Expanding… contracting.

Throbbing. (heh.)

Alex spent most of the day lying facedown on his bed, pillow resting over his head, his eyes closed—lightly, not too much tugging at the head, but then he would see a burst of light and it would pierce his brain.

The door creaked. "Alex?"

He groaned.

He would have expected Scott to peek in, see that Alex was still alive (and still here), and disappear. Under the sick float in his stomach and the drums in his head, Alex was distantly surprised that Scott padded into the room. Something clacked and Alex moaned. Sounds were not his friends.

"There's toast and water."

Alex tried to say something, but it came out groaning and spread the drool puddle to new parts of his face.

Scott closed the curtains before he left.

It took a while for Alex to motivate the pillow off his head. The toast was cold by then, but he crunched down a couple of bites and chased them with water. He felt a little better then. He also felt aware that he now had something to puke up if he needed to.

He stumbled and landed hard on the desk on his way to the dresser. The bottom drawer had what he needed. This was the hangover from Hell. Just a little hair of the dog to—

"Wha—" Alex cut off abruptly. The sound made his head hurt. "Little shit," he murmured.

He collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep again.

He woke up and looked for an empty bottle to piss in and cursed his brother all the way to the bathroom and back because he couldn't find a bottle.

It kept happening. Sometimes he woke up to water and dry toast and a few times the lights were off. Mostly he laid there hurting until he slept again.

* * *

 

When he woke up and could almost look around the room, Alex managed to sit up and look for his jeans. The room looked… _dammit._ That little guy had cleaned his room. How did Alex sleep through that?

Scott didn't knock this time. Alex was stumbling into his cleaned, folded jeans when Scott walked in.

"Alex!"

Did he have to sound so… happy?

"You're awake."

Alex nodded. "…huh…" he managed. His head was really spinning.

"Can we—can we talk? Are you up to that?"

"Yeah, uh…" Alex began. He meant it as an introduction to explaining that, right now, talking was out of the question. Things were still dizzy and sore.

Unfortunately, Scott took it as a yes.

"I know you've had a hard time—I can't imagine what it's been like lately."

Oh, Christ. Not even a chat—he wanted to Have A Talk.

"Alex—"

He stumbled and caught himself on Scott's shoulder.

"Not…" Alex began. He wavered—tried to pull back—and puked toast and bile onto both of them.

For a moment Scott just froze. Alex, to his credit, was genuinely sorry. He had every intention of making this up to Scott. In that moment, he had every intention.

"It's okay, Alex."

And he wanted to be defeated by that tone. But he knew he wasn't.

* * *

 

"Alex—oh Christ on a cross! Alex? Are you okay? Alex!"

He groaned. What was all the panic for? He was just… and then it hit him. He didn't just stink. He reeked like death. Or rather, he reeked like yesterday's vomit. His head still felt a little fuzzy, but mostly he was okay now. Alex could focus without more than a dull ache behind his eyes.

That hangover seemed to last for days!

"How long's it been?" Alex asked.

"You threw up yesterday. I told you—asked you to take a shower."

Alex nodded. That sounded like something Scott would say. Good idea, showers. He squinted. The only thing keeping him from seeing his brother properly was the dim light in the room. His eyes were working again. His brain was plugged in.

"Scott—the, uh… yesterday—"

"Take off your shirt."

"Dude, I'm your brother."

"Take off your shirt. I'll throw it in the wash. Sheets too. Just… take a shower, okay? Right now."

Generally when someone gave him an order, he needed to do the opposite. It wasn't a habit, barely a choice. It was like a compulsion that told him if he was cutting off his nose to spite his face, well, he had the joy of spite.

For once, he didn't do that. Alex took off his shirt and went to shower.

He almost felt human again—almost felt mutant again.

He pulled on clean clothes from his dresser. He looked at the bed. Scott hadn't just taken the sheets Alex puked on. He had made the bed with clean sheets, corners so tight Alex guessed he could bounce a nickel off them.

He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. He never asked for any of this and couldn't remember the last time someone took care of him. Couldn't remember the last time he had a hangover like that, either. It would be nice, he thought, to do something for Scott, but he wasn't sure what Scott wanted.

Snickers and girlie mags?

Scott had been born first and had the market cornered on maturity, but Alex had more life experience. He realized, despite that, he couldn't think of a single kind gesture toward the brother who had probably just taken better care of him than his adoptive mom. (Which wasn't actually difficult, not to belittle the effort.)

But first things first, all he'd had to eat for a day was toast and his stomach was finally not threatening to revolt. Sometimes his stomach was like a little drunk. Little guys always wanted to show how tough they were: throw something at me, let me throw it back!

He grabbed the last slice of leftover pizza and ate it cold.

"Alex."

He swallowed. "Hey, Ruth."

She stepped around him to wash her hands in the sink. They were muddy like she had just buried a body—although it was probably more to do with gardening than actual murder.

"You are feeling better." It was not a question.

"Yeah."

"These have been rough days for you."

"Ye—days?"

Ruth nodded. She turned off the water and dried her hands on a tea towel. "Hank and Scott brought you home on Tuesday morning."

Alex groaned. He raked a hand through his too-long hair, trying to make sense of it—trying to work up to asking an embarrassing question. "What's today?"

"Thursday."

_Ouch…_

"Your car needs to be brought home soon. Are you well enough to drive? I can give you a lift into town."

Alex licked pizza grease off his fingers and nodded. Seemed like the least he should do. Well, the least he could do was lie in bed pissing himself, but Alex was willing to do more than that.

"Okay."

"Wait, now?"

The look Ruth gave him took 'withering' to a new level. Was it possible to be castrated with a glance?

"You are too busy?"

Alex admitted he was not.

He followed her to her car and buckled in for what he knew would be a very bumpy ride. Ruth tended to take the speed limit as a whispered suggestion. Then again, with the threat of a headache behind his eyes, Alex wouldn't mind whispers.

He kept his eyes closed. Normally reckless driving did not bother Alex. Actually, he found rides with Ruth exciting. Not so much as he recovered from the worst hangover he had ever experienced.

When they reached the bar, Ruth got out and slammed her door—on Alex's head, it felt like. Of course she didn't really, but he wasn't sure if she intentionally hurt him with the sound. One thing Alex knew about Ruth, don't threaten her babies. Like it was any secret he hadn't been good to Scott lately.

Alex watched her slip bills to a man smoking outside the bar. So that was why his car hadn't been towed yet. He fumbled with his keys as he went to it. In many things, Alex was less than excellent. Not so car care, and it needed some love as soon as possible.

"Ruth?"

He stopped her as she passed by him.

"Yes."

"I, uh, was thinking about doing something nice for my brother."

"There is a first time for everything."

One question answered: Ruth was definitely angry. Alex decided arguing the point was not worth risking the loss of life.

"Maybe that's why I'm having such a hard time figuring out what to so."

Alex expected another cutting remark. Instead, she nodded. "I will think about suggestions."

"Thanks."

Again she nodded. He understood that their conversation was over and finally unlocked his car. There were a few empty beer bottles in the passenger seat footwell, which worried him. Alex always had a close, loving relationship with alcohol, but he didn't forget the things he drank. (Well, not within a few days.) He never drank in the car.

Something needed to change. If the past two days of hangover hell didn't make that clear, this did.

Of course, not everything was going to change. Alex, just like Ruth, drove recklessly, which was a stupid thing to do with a hangover threatening. His mind was on other things and, if he was being totally honest, it was a little fun to take a turn too fast.


	21. Easier

Scott left his bike outside the community college. He felt immensely out of place as he stepped onto campus. Not only was he much too young to be here and disheveled from the long ride, he had not set foot in a proper school for years.

His first attempt at locating one of Alex's professors (no, teachers, Scott decided, that other word had a rather specific proper usage) was a bust. He tried the woman's office before asking at the admissions office and learning that she was not in that day.

The next teacher he found had a class in session. It was held in a lecture hall a little like the auditorium at his old school, so Scott slipped in and sat at the back. Surely he would go unnoticed here. (He certainly had at his old school!)

What Alex's class studied seemed complicated. It was a math beyond what Scott even knew existed, eons beyond his rudimentary algebra. He tried to follow what the teacher said or even to understand what the students asked. He couldn't.

When the class was dismissed—without a bell, just a word from the teacher—Scott waited for the other students to file past. Then he approached the front of the room. To say he was not afraid would be a lie. He was, very much… and he didn't know why. He had never met this man before, but every instinct told him to be wary.

"E-excuse me."

The teacher was middle-aged and paunchy, rather what one expected of a college teacher, only without the spectacles and leather-patched tweed blazer.

"You were late," he observed. "If you're expecting your attendance to be counted, you—ah." He had looked up from his papers and paused. "You're a bit young to be one of mine."

"No, sir, I'm not," Scott agreed. "My brother is in your class, Alex—Alexander Summers."

"He's in my class," the teacher confirmed. "He was doing well, until the past few weeks. Hasn't been here at all this week."

That confirmed what Scott had already concluded: Alex had stopped going to school. Apparently his school did have spring break—he'd seen a poster saying so, advertising a highway clean-up that week—but afterward, Alex simply chose not to go back.

"I wanted to talk to you about that. I know Alex has been… he's been struggling lately—"

"All my students are adults, young man, they are responsible for their own behavior."

Scott took a step back. The rebuke silenced him and he wasn't sure why. He forced himself to take a deep breath. What was he afraid this man would do, after all? _Why_ was he so scared? The teacher had made no threat worse than a poor grade, but Scott’s heart was racing.

"Of course, sir. I don't disagree, I only… hoped to pick up Alex's assignments… if he might be able to make them up." Scott wasn't suggesting special treatment for his brother. He only wanted to be able to go home and… and ask Professor Xavier to make Alex do his work properly.

The teacher chuckled. "I appreciate an adaptive approach," whatever that meant… "but Mr. Summers is not due any more leniency than any other student."

Scott squeezed his nails into his palms. Pain was easier, clearer than fear.

"I have no doubt he sent his more diplomatic counterpart in the hopes that—"

"His friend died."

Finally, the teacher actually stopped and seemed to listen.

"Was shot." Actually Scott was not clear on this point, or sure why he thought Sean had been shot. The truth was just too complicated: he died on a mission, you see, my brother is a superhero. "Right in front of him. He was nineteen and he was just…a goofy kid…” Scott’s voice broke. He hadn’t been close with Sean, but it still affected him. He still missed Sean. He took a breath and continued: “Alex watched him die, and all, all I'm asking is that you let him make up the work. Mark it half credit. Unless everyone else in your class watched their best friend die, too, Alex—Alex _is_ different. His circumstances are different. And he didn't send me. I'm here because I'm a good brother."

_And you're a very mean person if you can't imagine doing something just because you love someone._

It was the sort of thing Ororo might have said and Scott wouldn't dare, but he enjoyed thinking it.

The teacher regarded him for a moment. "Wait here."

Scott did, imagining every terrible thing that might happen to him. He imagined that the teacher had gone to call his parents—call Ruth and the Professor—or somehow would track down Mr. Milbury because that's what happened to troublemakers—or Ruth might show up to take him home. Even though this wasn't the sort of thing he imagined she would be mad about, she probably would be if she was dragged out here and…

Or maybe the teacher had gone to find the school principal (as Scott assumed all schools had, not knowing that schools could have deans and presidents). It didn't make sense to worry—what could they do, yell at him? Except that they could do worse to Alex. What if being a nuisance had got his brother expelled? What if—

"Here we are."

The teacher returned, looking calm as ever. He held out a sheet of paper.

"This'll be your brother's work from my class and the others. He's lucky some of my other students share his schedule."

Scott took the page like it was the most precious, fragile thing he had ever held. He nodded. "I'll tell him. Thank you."

He knew there were bigger problems back home. The world felt like it was falling apart and what did Scott do? Built a blanket fort. Got Alex's homework. He would go home and things would be overwhelming again… but for just a moment, with this task completed, he let himself feel good.


	22. April 7-9, 1964

Dear Diary,

Does it count, if you didn't really know people who died?

Sean was always here, you can say that about him. I don't think we spent a lot of time together, but Ruth made him spar with me a few months ago. I think she did it to give me a little variaty. (Is that spelled right? Verity, I saw that in one of Scott's books, but it looks like it should sound different. Varioty? Veriety?)

Krav maga goes like this: Doug is the best besides Ruth, although if you can move quicker than him you can beat him. According to Scott at least. He's the best after Doug and the only one (besides Ruth) who stands a chance against him. Scott and Alex like to spar because they can beat on each other like brothers are supposed to, but usually Scott and Doug spar. Laurie doesn't do krav maga because she's a girl sort of girl.

So Sean was the best choice, even though he usually sparred with Alex or Ruth and even though he pulled back before he landed a punch. When you are the youngest, and the only girl (besides Ruth), no one wants to spar with you, but Sean did. Ruth made him but he did.

Things were different after that. He knew I wasn't fragile. I know it wasn't the same, but I thought I had Sean kind of like how Alex has Scott. Sometimes feeling like part of a family is hard with people who are truly family. Alex was Sean's best friend, but Alex has Scott. I'm Scott's best friend, but Scott has Alex. So relative to relatives, me and Sean, we were sort of the same.

I never thought much about protecting him, but he was a lot older.

But what is knowing people? I know that Sean liked chocolate cake, spy novels, and blonds. I know he got this look in his eye right before he made a quick grab for the last cookie. He had a funny face and could never hide anything he thought. I picked his pocket sometimes. Not to be mean! A game. I would take a dime or so and leave it on his dresser, not truly stealing. I didn't think he knew until the day he kept a chocolate in his pocket. Unwrapped and melty just to get one at me!

This is stupid. All right? This is stupid. I feel worse now! Stupid diary.

* * *

 

Dear Diary,

Ruth and I started planting a garden today. I don't know a lot about gardens. It turns out that when you plant one you get to play in the mud. I think if someone told me that I would have liked gardening a lot sooner.

So I spent all day with Ruth. We didn't all have dinner together. That was strange. Me and Ruth did.

I don't have much to say today. Does it still count for extra credit?

* * *

 

Dear Diary,

I think that in every culture, in every world, there are boys and girls, separate. Ruth told me that when she went to temple, she had to sit on a separate level from the boys. And I know it is true here, because even though I like Hank, and I respect you, Professor, and I know you're reading this, and Scott is I guess like a brother (but I never had one so how would I know), it's different with Ruth.

She told me that hundreds of years ago, when women were menstrai—mistrua—were having their period (sorry Professor) or giving birth, they had a tent where no men were allowed, where women went to just be women.

I don't know if I am a woman.

Obviously, I KNOW. From parts and that. But when I was in Cairo, I wasn't close with the girls or really one of the boys. And with the Maasai I had a friend who was a girl. I thought she was like me, but now I think she wanted to be like me. She wasn't, though.

I am not like other girls. I like Scott and Doug more than Laurie. The only woman I have ever met who I want to be like is Ruth. It would be easy to say this is because Ruth and I are from the same part of the world, but it was the same thing in Egypt and in the desert.

So sometimes, when things feel split like that, I don't like it. Plus it's because Scott and Alex are real family, but why should that matter? Nobody else here is real family. Something is going on and I don't know what.

So I feel outside and I feel like a girl but not a girl. I don't know how to be a woman. Being a man seems so easy! There's right and wrong and when you want to feel something and when you want to shut it down. They say that war makes boys into men. You have—men have—this experience they make as bad as possible so it makes parts of you collapse.

Men are fine and all, Professor. I like you, Hank, and Alex. I liked Sean. And so far Scott's the only friend who never turned on me.

I don't know. I want to start a lightning fire.

And also, I want you to know, I'm sorry for snapping at you about the story you were reading. I realize now that it was the book saying "don't you know" and not you asking if I knew things.

Are you reading this?

If you're reading this, will you tell me a story again?


	23. Okay

Something was wrong.

Scott felt it the moment he stepped into the house. The entryway felt not calm but shadowed, the very air silenced. His pulse sped up. Immediately his mind went to the most important thing, to the adoption. Had something gone wrong? It wasn't a sure thing, believing it was a sure thing had been a mistake, he should have known…

He slipped off his shoes quietly. Something was wrong and Scott knew he should think about Ororo and Alex, make sure they were okay, but first he needed to get to his room. He needed a moment to collect himself.

Needed a shower, too, and some water. Although bicycle was his primary method of transportation, an entire day and more than twenty miles was exhausting even for him. His backpack seemed to cut into his shoulders, although it wasn't heavy.

He only made it a few feet.

"Scott?"

He paused.

"Come here, please."

That was not a request. The Professor's tone was wrong. Something bad was happening—had happened—and Scott felt an overwhelming awareness of it. His life had been once more swept out of his control. He did not yet know how, but he tensed in anticipation.

He walked like a string puppet into the room no one could name. The living room, sitting room, parlor. Professor Xavier and Ruth were there, the expressions on their faces confirming what Scott already knew: things were bad.

He opened his mouth, but couldn't bring himself to ask.

"Have a seat."

He did, letting his backpack and shoes slide to the floor at his feet. Scott looked between Ruth and Charles, his mind running a litany of worst things. Would he have to leave? To go back to Omaha? Maybe—maybe he could stay, but just not be adopted. He could live with that. It was only a formality, right? So everything would be okay.

"This afternoon, Ruth and Alex went to pick up his car…"

The words floated over Scott, translating into meaning, into clues, as his mind worked at its peak efficiency to figure out what had happened.

Alex had been drunk. Sick. He had been drinking so much.

"Is Alex okay?" Scott interrupted.

"Alex is safe."

Throughout all of this, Ruth had been uncharacteristically silent. She had not said a word. Meanwhile Professor Xavier leaned forward and spoke in gentle tones. It was what he did to keep someone calm; Scott was familiar with that.

He believed it.

Alex was okay.

Then…

Realization shattered over him. _No no no…_ but it was, and he knew it. A numb, cold feeling spread through his body.

"Artie."

The Professor nodded. "I'm so sorry, Scott."

Scott nodded, bobbed his head, something to do. A response when he wasn't ready to give a response.

Artie had been his first real friend. When he was still guarded with Hank, Scott found himself feeling calm with Artie. Things were simple. She was the ugly, filthy, flea-ridden thing he brought home one day hidden inside his sweater. (Hank told him not to go anywhere but to the bathroom to shower and shove his clothes in a garbage bag, then take it directly to the laundry room and wash everything twice on the hottest setting. At the time, Scott did not realize how worried Hank was about fleas.)

More than that, Artie was the first time Scott didn't feel weak and under someone's control. He could care for her. It wasn't much, but for a whole new way of thinking, 'not much' is a nice introduction.

Now the feelings of connections and strength rushed out of him.

"This is my fault," Ruth volunteered. "Alex was not ready to drive, I never should have—"

"No. It's okay," Scott said. "I mean it's not—it's not okay, but it's… it is what it is." He looked between the two of them. His eyes stung, but his glasses hid the gathering tears. "Where is she?"

They traded glances.

"At the vet in town. She's being cremated."

Scott nodded. "Okay," he said. He rubbed his face like he wasn't sure if it was numb or hurting. "I'll, uh… I just need a minute to…"

He didn't know 'to what'. Luckily no one asked. The Professor told him, "Of course."

Scott picked up his backpack and his shoes and, as he tried to do earlier, made his way to his bedroom. All he could think was that he needed to be alone. It wouldn't make anything better, but he felt like he had a gaping hole in him—the least he wanted for it was privacy.

He wanted to just forget and move on, but his memories had other ideas. They flashed back to mornings waking up to a cat curled against him, the nights he slept on the floor because it was too hot for the bed and Artie made herself comfortable on his chest. The way she bit his nose to wake him up. How he had admired that cat because while it took him years to truly settle in, she simply arrived and decided she was home.

He was going to his room to be alone and be sad, and he genuinely would have done that—had someone not coincidentally been in the same area. Alex gave a furtive look and visibly considered ducking out of sight.

To his credit, he did not.

The brothers paused, looking at one another like strangers. Then Alex said, "It was an accident. I—"

Something about those words snapped Scott's mind in half. He felt prickles of burning heat across his skin, a weightless battering in his head. An accident. Everything he had done—everything he tried to do—and Alex… was _careless_!

Scott slammed his brother against the wall, an arm across his throat.

"No—more—accidents!"

Alex nodded. He was wide-eyed, if not scared then at least shocked by his brother's sudden change. It wasn't being shoved around. Alex had been in fights, won some and lost some, but this wasn't Scott.

"No more. No more accidents, no more drinking, no more apologies! You're going to stop skipping school, Alex. I'm going with you, from now on, every day! Because I don't trust you anymore. I can't trust my own brother, do you know what the feels like?"

There was a long, loaded silence in which Scott realized they had an audience. He had been shouting.

"Let him go." The Professor said it gently, but Scott recognized the warning tone.

He stepped back.

The look on Alex's face was difficult to read, a mix of shock and regret and, like everything in Scott's world, many tones of red. But more than anything else, he looked like raw pain. Like it was his pet gone.

"I'm sorry."

It should have been the right thing to say. More, that should have been the right way to say it. Alex genuinely regretted what he had done and it weighed on him in a way Scott should have understood—who should recognize regret more than the boy who blamed himself for every pain anyone's life?

All he could do was turn away.


	24. Before

The remainder of Thursday was quiet—not restful, not peaceful, just quiet like no one knew what to say. Scott only came out of his room to angrily shove a piece of paper at Alex. It was his assignments, which Alex promised to complete.

What was going on with the Summers boys engulfed them both and made them feel separate from the others, which was probably why they kept their distance and Ororo found herself sitting at the dinner table with Ruth, Charles, and Hank.

She _never_ had to be with just the adults. There was no one to goof around with and nobody seemed to want to start a conversation. Cutlery clacking against plates had never been so invasive a sound.

Everything felt like it had fallen apart.

She knew Charles wasn't going to read to her. She was sort of rude about the last story—not that she meant to be. It was a silly story where a boy went traveling with lots of animals. They scared two robbers out of a house and took it over. When the robbers tried to sneak in, one by one the animals scared them off.

The problem was that this story used a lot of words Ororo did not know—like awl, and threshing, and flail when it was a noun—and the story kept saying things like, "That was the cat, you know," and Ororo got upset because the story made her feel stupid. And it knew that.

That night she couldn't sleep. Ororo laid awake until the mansion felt a different sort of quiet. One learned to know by instinct the awareness that everyone was asleep. It was something, just a few years ago, that told Ororo when she should break into a home.

She slipped out of bed and padded down the hall. From outside Scott's room, she heard snuffling noises. She paused. She had never really warmed up to Artie and knew losing the cat would be tough for Scott, but hearing him cry was different. It made her hurt.

She pushed open the door. "Scott?"

He sniffled, but didn't respond.

Ororo made her way over in the dark. She found the edge of the covers and laid down next to Scott. Each lay on their side, face to face and invisible in the darkness.

Neither of them said anything for a long time. Scott was audibly crying and trying to stop. Ororo thought she ought to be comforting him somehow. She wanted to reach out, to hold him maybe, like he had done for her before, but she had never done that. She wasn't sure she knew how. The longer she thought about it but didn't, the more it seemed strange to start.

Finally, when several minutes passed in silence, she said, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Scott lied. "I just… my brother's a selfish jerk."

Ororo thought about that and about whether she ought to reply how she wanted to. Alex had done some dumb stuff, she wouldn't deny that… but Sean had been her friend, too. She just folded up how she felt about that. She imagined it like a piece of paper she could fold smaller and smaller until it was almost gone—but Sean used to tug her hair and spar with her in krav maga, and they once ate an entire bowl of cupcake batter together.

The idea of crawling inside a bottle of liquid numb and not looking out of it was pretty appealing, actually.

"You're too hard on people."

"He's done nothing but drink. He stopped going to school. Now Artie…"

"Have you ever done anything bad?" Ororo asked. "I mean really bad. Hurt anybody?"

Scott considered. "Before I knew about my powers, I took my glasses off. I wanted to look at a crane—a truck, not a bird. It was holding a bunch of construction stuff, boards and bricks. They all fell."

"What happened?"

"I managed to blast it. Some people still got hurt from the debris."

Ororo suppressed a disgusted noise. _That_ was his big bad behavior story? No wonder he couldn't forgive his brother.

"The Maasai, the tribe I lived with, called me a goddess. They have so little water and I could bring the rain. I thought I made rain. I can't do that. The rain I brought to my people caused a drought for others. People died."

There was a moment of quiet, then, "You were a kid. You didn't know."

Matter-of-factly, Ororo replied, "They still died." She had learned to live with that, as there was nothing she could do to bring them back. Living with it did not mean denying it. "You've never done anything bad and it makes you mean like a little kid. You don't know how to forgive. What happened… I don't want to sleep like they might come back. Raven's friends. Still better than how Professor Xavier has to feel about it."

Raven had been behind it, had been a player for the Brotherhood of Mutants. If Ruth, Hank, Alex, and Sean were there when the Brotherhood tried to steal Cerebro, they wouldn't have stood a chance. Ororo was still scared from how that night had been, but she and the other students at least knew they were innocents (this time, anyway). They weren't carrying the guilt.

Scott thought for a moment before saying, "I don't blame him."

"You do when you're mad. You're still waiting for people to be perfect. You know Ruth speaks perfect Arabic?"

"Yes…"

"Israel is like… like a piece of an orange. But every other piece of the orange is Arab, and the orange jacket is Arab, and the bitter white stuff—"

"Pith," Scott interrupted.

"—is Arab. Even the seeds are Arab. They speak Hebrew, but you can tell Israeli tourists. They speak English because their Arabic, Israeli Arabic, has Hebrew in it. Ruth speaks **perfect** Arabic, like an Arab." She waited a moment, but he gave no reaction to that. "Do you really not see why?"

"No. Sorry."

"She was a spy. Israel is—nobody likes Israel very much. I used to target the Israelis, to pick their pockets most because of what everyone says. Ruth is my mom and she's Israeli and I know she spied on Arabs. I don't know where. I don't know if I'm an Arab anymore, I know it's different, but mostly she's my mom and I love her. You overlook things like that. Well… I overlook things like that."

"You know you're supposed to be younger than me, right?"

"You understand this world. I understand people."

Scott sighed. For a few moments they were quiet, but Ororo knew they were not going to sleep yet.

"Artie—" he began, and stopped abruptly as his voice cracked down the middle. He sniffled and gasped before he tried again: "She was the only…"

He sobbed. This time he rolled over, facing away from Ororo, like she wouldn't hear him crying in the dark.

She had heard crying before, of course. Had cried herself as a child, before she locked down that part of herself. She looked down on the girls who cried in the orphanage. It was easier to think them weak and herself strong than acknowledge how much she wished she were one of them.

It wasn't the same with Scott. It was so much worse to hear and Ororo tried to say he was being weak. He was a pansy. He cared about that worthless animal… but she hadn't been worthless to him. And Scott was Ororo's friend. And she knew he wasn't weak—she was. She shut herself down because it was easier than hurting.

Listening to her friend suffer was a thousand times worse.

"I'm sure you could have another cat," she tried.

"I don't want another cat."

Well, he couldn't have Artie back… and although Ororo did not see what was so special about the fleabag (which was unfair, Scott had diligently checked Artie for any sign of fleas), she knew Scott had loved it. Not sure what else to do, she pressed herself against his back and slid an arm around him.

It wasn't a real hug.

From the way he gripped her hand, she knew it was as good.


	25. Home

The following morning, Scott washed his face twice, trying to scrub the raw feeling from his eyes. Maybe keeping them squeezed shut wasn't helping, but it kept him from exploding the bathroom.

He dried his face and placed his glasses over his eyes again. The world appeared, its usual rainbow of reds upon reds.

Scott had never been one to worry about appearances. One wasn't, growing up with clothes that didn't fit properly and more interest in hiding bruises and avoiding attention. So he hoped he looked okay. He had combed his hair and found the button-down with all his t-shirts—nothing but jeans to pair it with, but he did his best. He had ironed them.

Today was important.

He found Alex in his bedroom, a textbook open in front of him. Scott did feel a little sorry for some of the things he had said, but seeing Alex actually studying, he wasn't sure how much of it he could rightfully take back. This was such an improvement.

"Dude, I'm working on it," Alex said, preempting an argument.

Scott approached the bed, hesitated, then took a seat. "Can we talk for a minute?"

"You realize that means not studying."

"I realize."

Alex turned away from his book. "I'm sorry about Artie. I know that doesn't make it better."

"It's okay."

"It's not."

"Do better. That's what I want, not an apology, just this. Do your homework and go to school. But there's something, there's something I need to tell you."

Scott had wanted to talk to Alex about this for some time. The problem was that Alex spent so much of his time drunk lately, having a serious conversation was just not an option.

He took a deep breath. Somehow in resolving to talk to Alex about this, Scott never thought about how, exactly, to talk to him. Finally he just said it: "Professor Xavier wants to adopt me."

There were a lot of responses Scott would have understood from Alex. Getting adopted meant being part of a new family and Alex was all Scott had left of his biological family. This might feel like a betrayal.

Alex laughed. "About damn time!"

"You're not mad?"

"Why would I be mad?"

Scott wasn't sure why Alex _wouldn't_ be mad. "'Cause… it's like I'm abandoning you."

"You're not abandoning me, twerp," Alex shot back. "You're still gonna be here. Scott, you're fifteen. You're a good kid. You should have the chance at a family."

"I'm sixteen."

"Oh, well, never mind then, you're too old."

"You can't see, but I'm rolling my eyes at you."

Alex flicked a pen cap at him.

Scott left Alex working on his math assignment.

He wasn't much use for the rest of the morning, wandering around, occasionally spending fifteen seconds being still, and biting his nails until Ruth sat him down at the kitchen table. She put a drink and a plate of toast in front of him and told him, "Eat. You are nervous about today, but you can eat."

"I'm not nervous."

"Then eat because you are hungry."

Scott wanted to say that he wasn't hungry, either, but Ruth's expression told him she had no interest. She was right. He took a bite of toast and suddenly remembered that he was ravenous. He was through a slice and a half before his throat demanded liquid. The glass Ruth gave him looked like milk, but it was warm and tasted sweet.

"You gave me this when I was sick."

She nodded. "I did."

"What is it?"

"Milk and honey."

Honey. That was the other flavor.

"No one made me milk and honey before."

Ruth huffed. "Idiots, what can I say?"

"Ororo reckons you were a spy in Israel."

"In? No. For," Ruth explained. "After my mutation manifested on the kibbutz, they did not have me working so much with the trees. We grew tangerines. But I was training more for defense now and then I knew: I am not going to serve my country here."

Scott nodded. He understood that. Before coming here, he always assumed he would go into industrial work in Omaha, but sometimes he thought about the military. Mr. Milbury told him it was foolish—he was too weak, too prone to illness, not to mention his eye condition—but a person has to dream sometimes.

It was the 1950s and the Army was the best, most American thing a boy could do. You could make something of yourself.

Scott no longer believed he would join the Army. His power definitely made him ineligible. Besides, he could make something of himself in other ways (according to Professor Xavier). Nevertheless he understood how Ruth would see military service as an honorable pursuit. He certainly saw it as such… for people whose eyes weren't laser cannons.

"What was it like to be the only woman though?" he wondered. He took a good look at Ruth. He was so used to her, he didn't do this often, and he was surprised at how soft and gentle her face was. Of course she was still tough in every possible way and she always had her mouth set in half a scowl, but he saw the kindness in her face, too. "I guess it's different for you. You're confident."

"All Israeli women serve."

"Really?"

"Well, there are exceptions, there are the Orthodox or old women or mothers, but most women serve. Still I was different, I was a mutant and they were not, and I was recruited into—well, it is like the CIA."

While she talked, Scott had finished the rest of his toast and milk. He swallowed. "I am nervous, you know."

"I know."

"If I say the wrong thing they'll take me away."

Ruth gripped his hand. "No one is taking you away."

She was so tough and so sure that he had to believe her.

He tried to hold onto that believing when the social worker arrived.

She was older, maybe mid-forties, with a wool skirt and a hat that would make him laugh at any other time. It looked like a wastepaper basket.

To keep this from becoming any more complicated, everyone had agreed that only Charles and Scott would be present as far as the social worker knew. Ororo was in the lab with Hank; Alex was in his room studying; and Ruth was doing laundry, which, after a week of gardening, she sorely needed to do.

Charles, Scott, and the social worker sat in the parlor. Pleasantries had been exchanged, at least on the part of the adults—Scott was too nervous.

"You understand that this is a very unusual circumstance," the social worker said.

Her name was Miss Price.

"Yes, I believe that's been explained to your supervisor," Charles replied.

"It has," Miss Price confirmed. "I'll need to speak with each of you individually to fully assess the situation."

She decided to speak with Scott first. There was no way in which the conversation could be comfortable for him. He sat at the edge of his seat, gripping his knees.

Miss Price started simply. "Could you tell me your name, to confirm?"

"M-my name is Scott Matthew Summers."

"And how old are you, Scott?"

"Sixteen. Almost sixteen—I think I'm sixteen."

She nodded and made notes on a notepad as he spoke. "What grade are you in at school?"

"Tenth."

It was actually a difficult question. They didn't use those terms here. Everyone knew Doug was in his last year and Laurie had one more year, but what was Ororo, with no history of formal schooling? Or Scott, who had struggled and repeated classes?

"That's an exciting year. What's your favorite subject?"

That one was easier. "English."

It wasn't long before she progressed to questions tougher than the technicalities of grade enrollment. "Do you want to be adopted, Scott?"

He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Do you want to be adopted by Mr. Xavier?"

"Yes."

"Why is that?"

"Because… because he's like my dad."

"How so?"

Miss Price asked the question gently, but Scott still struggled to find the right answer. After all, what did he know about dads? He only had one until he was five years old and most of his early memories centered on his mother.

Finally, Scott managed, "I can always talk to him about anything, if I'm upset or confused. He gets after me about homework and keeping my grades up, thinking about college. He really genuinely wants for me to be happy and I didn't even think that was an option before I came here."

"And you're not concerned he may be incapable of caring for you?"

Scott thought for a moment. "I'm sorry. I don't understand."

"We are discussing a crippled man. Normally someone in his state would be ineligible—"

"I'm sixteen," he interrupted. "Maybe that matters with little kids. Someone being able to walk doesn't have anything to do with taking care of me."

"My biggest concern, Scott—" he was starting to dislike the way she said his name "—is that you're the one being taken care of here."

He stared. She couldn't see it through his glasses, but he was staring, utterly incredulous. Where had she been back in Omaha? When he was being hit and starved and cut open, where was this woman?

And why was she so concerned now when someone was trying to help him?

Apparently he was quiet too long because she continued, "For a single man to adopt is virtually unheard of and adoptions of children your age are uncommon. I'm here to be certain this is a healthy situation for you. That you're not being exploited in any way."

* * *

A short while later, Charles faced a similar accusation. He did so calmly, even chuckling. "I am a man of means. If I needed a caretaker of any kind, I would certainly hire one."

He was the very opposite of Scott, utterly collected, his posture relaxed like he was a man who had always received what he wanted. (He had.) Although he had become somewhat less self-concerned the past few years, it was a useful habit to call up, appearing so certain.

"Have you ever engaged in deviant sexual behavior?"

Charles raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon," he said, a touch incredulous but not uncomfortable. He understood the implication. He was quite aware that single men did not adopt and that boys Scott's age were not adopted. And he understood that in her own way, this woman meant to protect Scott.

But he wouldn't make this one easy. He wasn't a pervert; he would never do such a thing to a child.

"Were you born with your condition?"

"No, I lost the use of my legs quite recently. I was shot in battle."

Now that was a little unfair and Charles knew it. Implying he had been a soldier was misleading. But then, hadn't they been? Had it not been Erik's analysis after Darwin died?

"Are you capable of having children?"

"I don't know. Haven't tried."

Neither Charles nor Ruth wanted a baby, although when she acknowledged that she might, one day, he agreed that he might too. (He was indifferent, but it seemed to make her happy.) But for now she was on the pill and neither of them raised the subject much.

"What precisely do you mean to ascertain with these questions, Miss Price? I understand your concern that a child might be mistreated or… interfered with…" Although he could not honestly say that he understood why she thought someone who could do such a thing would admit it "…but what has my fertility to do with anything?"

He understood, even appreciated that she considered what wretched things someone might do to a vulnerable young person--and although he did not see himself that way, Scott was vulnerable. Charles had thought at first that he was simply afraid of consequences, having been punished so harshly and so often in the past for no reason. He had come to realize that there was a need for affection there, an eagerness to please that could be so easily exploited.

"You're a very difficult man to research. There is plenty to be known about your family--the philanthropy, the hushed indiscretions. There is little about you and out of nowhere you decide to adopt this child. With bribes. My job, Mr. Xavier, is to protect children and in my experience wealth does not preclude mistreatment. It does not excuse you from the rules the rest of us follow."

He considered the explanation and respected it. If anything, Charles decided he was encouraged that someone noticed the strange situation. The same had certainly not been done in Omaha.

"What do you stand to gain from adopting this boy?"

"Oh, very little," Charles replied. "I love him like my own child. I know that Scott cares for me and I know he feels safe here. I believe that, were he removed, he would find his way home, so there is no question of his presence. This is nothing to do with passing on any sort of legacy. He wants his name to remain as it is and I have no objection to that.

"Any benefit to me would be short-lived. He turns eighteen in a few years and will be going to college." Charles had decided this. "Colleges don't care what the legal relationship is between their students and whoever pays tuition. Scott will be happy and no doubt will remain a part of my life, but he'll grow up and become increasingly his own man.

"I imagine this is why you question anyone adopting a boy his age, eccentric or otherwise. The benefit, Miss Price, is not to me. It's to the child who has spent his very short life learning that he is expendable. This piece of paper will not tell me that he is my son, nor that he is safe here—I know those things. It's for him. He needs something he can hold in his hands that promises he always has a home."


	26. Individuals

The world didn't really look better.

Alex stepped outside and squinted against the bright sun. His head felt better. It was just so bright. But he had spent too much of his time inside or in his own mind, and getting out was nice.

He walked to the newly planted patch of plants. They smelled familiar. Alex leaned in. One of them was definitely mint. The other one…

"That's rosemary."

He straightened and turned. "Hey Ororo."

"Me and Ruth planted."

Alex nodded. "Looks good," he said. It was the first thing he could think of that Ororo had really done. Day-to-day realities of the students' lives were generally uninteresting: the kids tended to mostly have their classes and do their homework and be boring, kid-like… kids. So he added, "Smells good, too."

Ororo tilted her head. She regarded him for a moment, then asked, "How are you feeling, Alex?"

Alex looked at her. Ororo was the sort of kid you knew would be pretty when she grew up, but who now looked awkward, like she hadn't grown into her limbs yet. Most significantly, she looked earnest.

"You're the first person who's asked me that."

She shrugged.

"Like shit."

"That makes sense."

Alex reacted initially with surprise. Then he thought about what she had said and decided he appreciated it. Ororo hadn't lied to him and said it wasn't his fault or that he didn't deserve to feel that way. She hadn't told him he did deserve it, either.

"Thank you."

"Yeah."

No _you're welcome_. He liked this kid.

"When I was in the orphanage, they told us good people go to Heaven. But the Maasai just put them for the hyenas."

"Maasai?"

"They're a tribe in Africa."

Besides giraffes, elephants, and bright sunshine, Alex didn't have a very clear idea of Africa. He used to have a clear idea of what sort of people he thought lived there, but that was before meeting Ororo. Now he wasn't sure he knew anything about it.

"I don't think I believe in Heaven," he said.

Ororo shrugged. "Nor do I, but the hyenas were real."

"Sean did. He believed in Heaven."

"Did he?" she asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

Alex nodded. "He was real religious, but he was all right about it. Never needed everyone around him to know."

She nodded.

"Want to show me around the garden?"

* * *

 

"Scott, I'm glad you're here, I wanted to speak with you about—please stop doing that."

There was the trouble with addressing someone you had telepathically sensed. Charles did not know until coming into the kitchen that he had a more immediate issue to address.

Scott stood at the sink, nearly bent in half as he drank directly from the tap. He straightened up when he heard Charles's voice, guiltily wiping his mouth. Although he knew what to do, his brain skipped like a scratched record.

"A glass," Charles prompted.

"Right!" Scott filled a glass, gulped its contents, and filled it again. His hair and shirt were damp with sweat, his face still red: he must have just come in from a run. By now, Charles supposed Scott knew the grounds better than he did.

Scott put aside his glass and began to fill the kettle.

"You don't have to do that."

"I don't mind."

The table had been cleared, Scott and Ororo's blanket fort put away, although one of the phone books was still on the counter.

"Scott?"

Even with the glasses, it was clear he wasn't focusing.

"Right!"

He put the kettle on. "Is everything all right?"

"Yeah—yes, of course."

Charles glanced out the window and immediately understood. There were Alex and Ororo, talking, looking… happy. He had not seen either of them smile like that in a long time.

"Sorry, Professor, you were saying you'd heard something?"

Getting the words out was a huge accomplishment. Scott's voice was high and tense. Charles understood: there was something he was afraid to hope for, but he did anyway.

"Nothing's official," he warned, "there will be papers to sign, processing times—there are no promises with the timeline, but it is a sure thing."

Scott didn't respond. He couldn't. He was trying to catch his breath, to take a shock of information and make it a fact he knew.

"You're to be adopted."

Still he couldn't say anything, but Scott began to grin, slowly and then like it might break his face in two. He began to laugh. He ran a hand over his face, awkward and not sure what to do with this really good feeling.

They sat in silence for a while. When the kettle whistled, Charles set the tea to brew. Only then did he ask, "Are you all right?"

Scott nodded. "I, uh… can I call you Dad now?"

"Well, yes, if you like." His voice sounded light, his usually certain and factual manner replaced with one of emotion, but the truth was Charles felt a charge from that word. Just hearing Scott say it, imply it about him… well, as a scientist he was inclined to point out that "heartwarming" was merely a slightly increased rate of blood circulation.

Scott glanced at him. For a moment, they both waited, both expecting him to say that one tiny word.

Then he looked back to the table and laughed, his face turning impossibly redder. "I can't—it's too weird, I can't. I'm sorry."

"It's all right."

"But you are," he added, looking at the table. He did that often, looked down when he said something that was meaningful to him. Usually he wasn't grinning. "My dad, I mean. Can we talk about what I said to Alex?" Scott could only acknowledge his emotions for so long.

Charles poured his tea, then brought it back to the table. He did not bother appealing for a quiet, peaceful cup of tea—what were the chances, after all?

"You were angry and upset."

Scott couldn't deny that. When he found out about Artie, he had seemed devastated and everyone knew it. Nonetheless, "I meant what I said. I have his schedule and I'm going to his classes with him from now on—I'll wait for him in the car. He can go to the classes on his own, but I need to know he's getting to school. This is the only way I can do it."

The plan sounded reasonable, but Alex and Scott's classes were often at the same time. It meant Scott missing a significant amount of his own schooling.

"You're not putting your education on hold to see to your brother's."

"Ruth said she would give me assignments to do on my own. I do okay in history. I'd miss part of science on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I'm not struggling so much in science."

Charles sipped his tea. "Well," he said, "I suppose we shall simply have to have algebra and philosophy in the evenings."

Scott looked like he had just been given a puppy. "Really?" Despite his planning and convictions, he probably had not believed he would be allowed to see this through.

"Of course. Besides, if this goes badly, there's always summer. You must understand that Alex may not appreciate having supervision from anyone, let alone a sixteen-year-old."

Scott nodded. "Well—yes, but…" he shrugged. Alex would "He's my brother. He'll get over it."

If only it were that simple! The comment made Charles think about his own sibling. He had forgiven Raven if that was called for—he wasn't certain. She had left him. But had he had overlooked her, not made her happy—he only meant to protect her…

But that was an issue for another time.

"How do you do it, Professor?"

It was an issue for another time, because here was a boy looking to him like he had all the answers.

"Something's going to go wrong again. And Alex and Ororo, they'll get hurt, and I know that."

Charles noted that Scott had left out the possibility of himself getting hurt. Then again, that was Charles's to worry about, wasn't it?

More, here was the same mistake he had made. Scott only wanted to protect the people he loved and Charles determined to see to it that he understood: he couldn't. People got hurt, made bad choices, and you had to let them.

"That's the way life is. Sometimes people do get hurt, and it's unavoidable, but we can't grow without adversity. Not as a species or as individuals. Besides, Ororo and Alex know they'll always have you. And you'll always have me."

"What about you? Who do you have?"

 _You_.

Charles didn't dare say it. He knew Scott would always be loyal to him, always be his son, but he couldn't ask a sense of obligation. He wanted Scott to be ready to leave for college in a few years, not feel that he had to stay to be a good son.

Of course, that was slightly less than half of it, but it was the half Charles acknowledged. He wanted to teach his son that it was okay to need people; he wanted Scott to be someone who asked for help, built symbiotic relationships, and who, above all else, was not alone.

But Charles could not live that moral.

The past years had forced him to ask for help and deep down Charles knew he was better for it, but he couldn't admit to needing anyone. He needed his independence. Since the paraplegia, he _needed it._

Of course, there was the exception: "Ruth."


	27. Epilogue

Dear Ororo,

To begin with: yes, I have read your journal entries. I read them as soon as I found them on my desk and am touched that you chose to share. Thank you for the effort you put into this assignment. You have indeed earned the extra credit.

Family can be a difficult concept to define. Indeed, even taxonomic families are difficult to define and the subject of much debate. While stating what a family is may be outright impossible (or at least possible only as academic suggestion), to state who is family is much simpler. You are an integral part of this family and you always will be.

Whatever passed between you and my sister, I won't make excuses for her behavior. Nor will I make excuses for my own. I failed to protect you. I also underestimated you.

Remember how much you have lost, because with three cities, two languages, and more people than you have named in your past, you continue to thrive and remain, if not always so, compassionate. You have an amazing capacity for kindness which you chose to show Alex this morning. I hope you understood how powerful this was.

You are strong enough to be vulnerable from time to time. My sister acts out of pain and rage. Raven is weak. It does not, can not justify her actions, but it should say, if nothing else, that you will endure.

You wrote often about loss, something that has visited your life far too often in fourteen years. Nevertheless I do hope you will keep in mind that in spite of the many people and places that have been taken from you, you continue to build new relationships. You are not alone.

You left your journal for me to find. When you first arrived, you spoke to me sometimes about your experiences prior to your time in the orphanage. Should you ever wish to do so in the future, I would be happy both to listen and to help you find the words.

And yes, Ororo, I will read you a story again.

Charles Francis Xavier


End file.
